Sky Blue, Ocean Blue

by purplegirl761

When a reformed mad scientist befriends a stranger to Earth who's also haunted by the past, neither of them suspects that their blossoming relationship will carry them through everything from ice cream to intergalactic warfare. Welcome aboard a little ship I like to call Drakkis.

53. Bluebird

~Hey, guys! I'm sorry it's been so long. My life has gotten a lot busier these past few months (and I'm mostly loving it), and I've been working to get this chapter just right. Hope it was worth the wait.

I appreciate you all. :)~

The doors of Little Homeworld's central building stand propped open, letting in light and sound and waves of air that rustle the banner hanging from the desk beside you: Welcome to Little Homeschool! in moist letters every color a Gem can be.

You gaze at it for a moment and then move your eyes to the mound of clay next to it that the Crystal Gems pried free from the outskirts of Amethyst's Kindergarten, where life meets emptiness. It slouches in front of you, looking nothing like the sculpture you will fashion from it, its purple hue faint and spare though somewhat darker now that you have doused it with enough water to transform it into a semisolid which you can manipulate. Placing a sculpture at the entrance was Pearl's idea; using the earth that your people pitted to grow soldiers was yours.

"What should I make out of it?" you asked when Garnet and Bismuth carried it into the building.

Garnet smiled with only the corners of her mouth. "Whatever you like."

You did not need to ask any more questions.

Sunshine spills across your back and surrounds your gem as you raise your hands in front of the clay. The water does not move, and yet you sense something like a leaping in its molecules, reveling in creation in a way it never did in destruction. No fear weights the slender line that connects it to you.

Any time now, Steven will walk in. He is filming a commercial for Little Homeschool to transmit through space, and he told you in the pale light of morning that he wants footage of you working on the sculpture. "Just act natural," he advised you, and you asked him to simply come in when he is ready, without warning or preamble. Peridot will be with him, holding and turning the camera with her mind. In the first few attempts at filming, her pivots were so swift they reminded you of the sharp, steep turns on the rides at Funland; Steven has been teaching her how to achieve something that he calls a "slow pan."

You raise your hands to the ceiling and then begin to seal them, your fingers closing in increments around your palms. The water spins the clay, gathering and tucking its edges until it becomes a compact sphere. Whether you work quickly or slowly, you do not know. You and the water accept one another at any speed and never take measurement of one another's movements.

Your arms spread and rise and your eyes close. In the darkness, you can see each individual contour of the object you want to depict: Homeworld, whole and unbroken, the crack down its middle mended as though touched by Steven's lips. The thought flows from your gemstone outward and finds its way to the more fluid parts of you, rippling through your limbs and pushing at the thin layers of manifested skin.

You and the water dance together, separate but linked, and with every intangible twirl and shift, the sight before you begins to mirror the sight inside you.

Behind you, you hear the thick padding of someone's footsteps, and the fleet, clambering shuffle of someone else. You do not have to look to know that it is Steven and Peridot, the camera suspended in the air between them.

"At Little Homeschool, you can learn how to put your talents to good use," Steven says. "Are you used to using your powers to destroy things? Come find out how to create things instead!"

You glance over your shoulder just in time to see Peridot sliding the camera closer. The light reflects off its lens, a glass eye that will catch your image and carry it like a stream across the galaxies to the places where your people live. You focus not on it but on the friends below it; they are small enough for you to face and big enough to eclipse everything else.

As the camera dips toward you, you blink and allow your face to do as it pleases, your lips motionless yet not frozen, your forehead crinkling softly. The red light beside the lens burns and then swivels away. Steven turns on his heel and strolls from the building, and Peridot follows, the camera gliding in her wake. You can see the care she is taking with it, and you grin to yourself.

The sculpture calls out to you in the thickened voice of water mixed in with another substance, asking to be completed. You oblige it, filling in crevices and ridges you remember from the days before you left for your mission to terraform Earth. Homeworld was unrecognizable when you returned.

You don't know how much time has passed before Steven calls from outside, "Okay, that's a wrap!" Several nearby Gems applaud, and you hear Peridot's screech of delight crest above all other sound. You touch the sculpture, its cool surface just tensile enough to give beneath your fingers, and rest with it for a moment before turning and walking through the doors to rejoin your family. Your powers lie curled inside you the way Steven's lion will curl up in the sun, a gentled, sleeping thing content to leave its claws hidden.

Peridot bursts from the crowd and runs to you right away. "Lapis!" she cries. "You did amazi –"

You put up your hand to stop the flood of compliments that you know are coming; it is Peridot's way. "Peri. Thanks. But literally all I did was turn and blink." You slide your elbow to her tiny side and give it a nudge. "That was some pretty nice camera work, though. You've gotten so much better at it."

Her green eyes shimmer. "You really think so?"

"Uh, yeah. I bet nobody's gonna get seasick at all watching this commercial."

"Seasickness is an ailment to which Gemkind is immune," Peridot informs you with a frown that vanishes like morning mist. "But I appreciate the sentiment."

You smile at her. "Nerd."

She wrinkles her nose happily, her gaze already searching out whatever will come next. Around you, Quartzes line up to give Steven high-fives and slaps on the back. The wind shakes branches rife with fat green leaves, and you remember the day Steven plucked a leaf from the sky, its edges crisp and orange as though aflame, handed it to you, and informed you that Earth was always changing, becoming something new every day. You remember feeling a curious sense of comfort that this planet did not stay in one place long enough to stagnate, all the more puzzling when you considered how it unsettled you to find Homeworld altered.

You hear a whisking sound and the branches above your head flick backward as the atmosphere suddenly cools, the aftermath of being brushed by a winged creature moving too fast for anyone to see. You hold your arms at your sides and keep your chin tilted. There are many things on Earth that fly: it could have been a bird, a bat, or even a very large insect.

It does not have to be another member of Blue Diamond's court.

The scene before you twists, as though your gem has gone crooked, and you picture them, their grim proper faces, their lips pinched as they take in what is allowed in Little Homeworld. For the first time in several weeks, you search the surrounding area for signs of enemies. It is not peaceful – Little Homeworld rarely is – but there is nothing invasive about today's chaos either. Your physical form is just beginning to relax when Peridot speaks up.

"Steven," she says, her voice a fountain of giggles, "you smell good."

You catch a glimpse of Steven's bewildered expression as you take a step closer and sniff. He does smell good: fresh and open like a mountain stream, though you miss his youthful smell of sweat and sand. Dr. Drakken has told you that humans sometimes purchase liquid in bottles that has been carefully mixed and manipulated to produce a pleasant aroma and apply it to their skin. Steven must be old enough to buy some for himself now.

"Um…thanks? For telling me that," he says.

"Of course!" Peridot replies, still grinning. "The sign on your back told me I should."

"Sign on my back?" Steven jerks his head around, trying to find a place he cannot reach or see any more than you can your own gemstone.

You join Peridot behind him. A piece of white paper has been attached to the back of his jacket with a single adhesive strip; in large, harsh-edged black letters, someone has written, TELL ME I SMELL GOOD.

"Yep, you got one, all right," you say. You place one hand on his back and use the other to tug the paper loose. "It says, 'Tell me I smell good.'"

Steven takes the paper from you, and his eyebrows creep together. "Oh. It does. That's…weird."

"Very." You nod. "I mean, not that you don't smell good, but I don't get who'd do this or why."

"I have a theory." This, of course, comes from Peridot. "I saw a television program once where children were trying to be unkind to one another. One of their preferred tactics was to stick signs to their opponents' back. Normally they said things along the lines of 'Laugh and point at me' or 'Kick me.'"

Steven frowns. "At least mine didn't say, 'Kick me.'"

"We wouldn't have kicked you," you say. "At least not that hard." You smile down at Steven. His answering smile is bright but weak, like the end of a sunset.

He shakes his head and says, "Whatever," a word you have rarely heard from Steven. "But, seriously, guys, thanks for the help with the commercial." He gestures to the camera, which now lies on one of Little Homeworld's numerous benches, its eye blank and its light off. "I think it's gonna reach a lot of Gems."

You nod, knowing he is talking not about radius but rather about the strange feelings that trickled over you when you met him, something new and warm surfacing between your shoulder blades as his fingers caught your arm and prevented you from falling again. Every Gem should have a chance to experience those.

Steven sighs and fishes around in his pocket, pulling out a pouch with a cylindrical tube rising from the top. He brings it to his lips and takes a long swallow. An instant later, his face contorts as if someone has poked him with a stick. "Eeeeyick!"

The sound pulls your jaw tight and you glance first up and then around, girding your body against the threat that must be just out of sight. "Steven, are you okay?"

"What does 'eeeeyick' mean?" Peridot says.

"Yes," Steven says, looking at you. He turns to Peridot. "And it means somebody replaced my juice box with a thing of tomato juice."

You lean forward and get a better look at the pouch in Steven's hand. Unlike the square pink boxes from which he usually drinks, this is soft and round, bowed out like a bowl, with grayish tints and a large picture of a tomato on the front. You are aware that tomatoes are actually a fruit; Dr. Drakken told you once, adding with pride that most people didn't know that. Their tastes, however, must not be anywhere near comparable, as you can guess from the way Steven's pink plump features wince.

"Seriously? Lame," you say. "Could one of the Quartzes have done it?" You peer over Steven's head at the rowdy group shoving and jostling as they bicker over whatever game they are playing. They are not enough like Jasper to want to harm Steven, yet they share the streak of rash impulse.

"Nah," Steven says. "They're not even paying attention to us anymore. If one of them had done it, they'd have been standing around waiting for me to take a drink, and then they'd fall all over themselves laughing. It wasn't them." He shrugs. "Anyway. I should probably get back to the temple."

Rather than move toward the warp pad, Steven digs around in his pocket once more and returns with a silver ring strung with several metallic keys. They, you know, operate the van he bought earlier this spring. He is going to drive it home.

A wave crashes inside you, cold and white, and you take a step to match Steven's. "At least let us walk you to your van, okay?" you say.

Amusement skips across his eyes like a flat stone across a pond, but he doesn't protest as you fly ahead, eyes scouring the sky and ground for signs of further attack, as Peridot trails along behind him, squinting at the grass as though something ferocious might be hiding between the blades. He is smiling again by the time you reach his van, a compact frame shaped like a juice box without the rounded endpoints or gaudy colors that mark his father's. Something about it seems too austere to belong to Steven.

At this point, however, you see only what is piling atop its roof: seven white wraps of thin, tender paper that you have seen only in toilet rooms until now.

"What the heck…" Steven mutters.

"Is this something kids do to be mean to each other?" You direct the question to Peridot. She has seen more Earth television than you have.

"It could be," Peridot says. "I've seen bullies 'toilet-paper' or 'TP' other children's property before, but they do that by unraveling the paper and throwing it everywhere. The neat stacking does not fit the MO at all."

Steven throws his curly head back. "Whoever's pranking me, it's not all that funny!" he calls. "Also, you have a really weird idea of what a 'prank' is!"

There is a sharp edge to his tone, like a broken sheet of ice. It evaporates when he shrugs again and tosses the wrappings of paper into his backseat.

"Oh, well," he says. "At least I won't have to buy any more toilet paper for a while." He throws his arms around your neck and then stoops to hug Peridot as well. "All right, see you later, guys."

You wave as he gets into the van and drives away. Peridot hops up and down, waving her arms, until the van disappears into the curve of the horizon. For the moment, all seems normal, and yet you feel the same tension in your spine that you see in Pearl's eyes when she notices a couch cushion askew or a bed left untidy.

The breeze picks up the sign and drops it at Peridot's feet. She snatches it up. "All right, this is material evidence. We shall have to run forensics on it at once!"

"What, you mean, like for fingerprints?" You gaze your hands and smile at the memory of an Earth-man's frail fingers touching yours. "I hate to break it to you, Peridot, but that only works when you have, you know, suspects to compare it to."

Grooves form in the skin beneath Peridot's visor. "That is true. We will have to take samples from every citizen of Beach City and Little Homeworld. We cannot rest until the culprit is found! Not to mention there's such a thing as handwriting analysis!"

"Right. Have fun with that," you say with a snort, but you give the paper another glance. "Weird that it's handwritten at all. If it was…some enemy, they'd probably be from Homeworld, and they're used to typing and stuff up there, right?"

Peridot nods. You run your eyes over the writing, yet as you suspected, it is entirely unfamiliar. The letters have been inscribed with such force that you shiver to imagine what the person who formed them must have been feeling.

Your best friend sprawls on her stomach and holds the paper out in front of her, examining it from every angle. You jump as a stampede of Quartzes, apparently having completed their game, rush past you in search of a new one; they make every movement sound like an altercation.

"Hey!" Peridot yips as a brawny foot narrowly misses her fingers. You shoot out your wings and sweep her into your arms before another foot can collide with her wrist.

"Look out, guys!" you call. "What's the rush, anyway?"

"Sorry! Bismuth's gonna teach us all a new game," Angel Aura says over her shoulder. "Something about putting shoes on horses."

You glance at Peridot in confusion as the Quartzes continue to stream toward the forge. "That sounds kinda risky," you say, although you would expect nothing less from Angel Aura and her friends. Only on television and in books have you seen horses: powerful, long-legged animals capable of both gentle paces and fierce sprints. You would not want to try directing their feet into shoes.

"Maybe Amethyst just shapeshifts into a horse, and they try to stick the shoes on her," Peridot says. "Or – or maybe it's just a drawing of a horse, and you're blindfolded and have to stick a drawing of the shoes as close to the feet as you can, like that game we played at Steven's birthday party!"

Bismuth emerges from the smoldering darkness of the ford with metal in her arms, and you raise your eyebrows at Peridot. "I guess we're about to find out," you say.

Horseshoes turns out to involve neither horses nor shoes, but instead thick pieces of metal Bismuth has forged, which hang low and heavy like Dr. Drakken's chin and which the Quartzes pitch at a stake driven into the ground; the person whose piece comes closest to hooking around the stake wins.

"I could win this game easily," Peridot says as she dangles from your arms. She nods in satisfaction. "I could win it so easily it would probably qualify as 'cheating.'"

"I know, right?" you say, even as you grin at the idea of small, slight Peridot outperforming a group of Gems several times her size. Most of the games your people play in Little Homeworld allow superpowers provided everyone playing has a viable superpower to use, though sometimes that becomes complicated; while you can choose not to use your wings, a Quartz would find it much harder to not use her superior strength.

You never discover how long a game of horseshoes lasts. This game ends when Amethyst appears on the warp pad, jogs up to Bismuth, and tells her something too quietly for you and Peridot to overhear. Bismuth responds with a nod that seems calm, but even from high above you can see the line of her jaw tighten.

Peridot looks up at you with questions in her eyes. You pull back your wings and sink to the earth, letting Peridot's feet touch the ground before yours. Amethyst turns and walks in your direction without her usual saunter, her hair shrouding her face.

"Hey, guys. So a new Gem just showed up at the temple. Came all the way from Homeworld. You should definitely come meet her." Amethyst's voice sounds like it is made of ashes.

You peer at Amethyst closely. When new Gems arrive from Homeworld, there is usually a celebration, an occasion that Amethyst slips into as though it is her own Emergence hole, yet now she stands with her arms locked across her chest, as if she believes she will need to protect her gem at any moment.

You don't want to know, but you ask anyway: "Who is she?"

"She says her name is Bluebird."

Peridot scoffs, a noise like a thin trail of steam from a geyser. "Bluebird? That's not even a Gem name! What a phony."

Even behind the pale fall of hair, you know Amethyst rolls her eyes. "Bluebird Azurite, if you're gonna be all picky." She hesitates. "She's a fusion."

A cold too deep to feel blooms in the center of your gemstone. You fold the scene in front of you, creasing the corners to create a moat that allows nothing from beyond to enter its borders.

"Oh," Peridot says. You recognize her expression; it is the same one she wore after almost being kicked by a Quartz.

"Yeah," Amethyst says. "Like I said, come scope her out for yourself and then we can figure out what to do, okay?"

"Sounds great," you manage to say, even though your hollow insides feel weaker than they have in months. "We'll be there. Just as soon as I go get Dr. Drakken." No one can stand between you and fusion the way he does.

Amethyst shrugs and turns away. Peridot's tiny hand catches hold of your arm before you can point yourself toward the warp pad and when you look down at her, her green eyes are bright with sunlight and anxious hope. "Do not be afraid, Lapis," she says. "There are a lot of blue Gems out there."

Even the nasal clicking of her words cannot make you smile. "There are," you agree. "There's even a lot who don't want to destroy Earth."

You cannot think at the moment who they would be.

You ride the warp pad to Middleton, which greets you with a soft breeze and the smell of trampled grass. The rows of neat square houses and the sight of the large building shaped like a hat that Ron likes so much feel like a warm ocean vent in the midst of the chill, yet only when you see Dr. Drakken's distinctive blue-speckled house do you allow that warmth to enclose you.

Drakken flits around on his porch as you approach, and a pink blur romps alongside him. Once you are closer, you see that he has a narrow rubber object in his hands and is tossing it across the porch for Commodore Puddles to capture. He shouts for Commodore Puddles to bring it back, but the dog only trots around in circles, the toy swinging merrily from his mouth.

Spots of pink appear on Drakken's cheeks, but his face brightens when he sees you. "Hi, Lapis!" He nudges his dog. "Look, Commodore Puddles, it's Lapis! Can you say hi?"

Commodore Puddles takes one cautious step toward you as you drop onto the porch, the black holes of his nose wide and wet, and then walks sideways, crablike, away from you. The thick curly fur on the back of his neck lies flat, however, and he does not show his teeth to you. His acceptance is welcome if incomplete.

"Hey, Drakken." You climb onto his porch railing and let your legs fall to either side. "Is now an okay time to come back to Beach City with me?"

"It's always an okay time to go back to Beach City with you!" Drakken's smile collapses. "Unless I'm in the shower.

"But, yes, I'd love to go now!" He walks closer, his forehead creasing. "Is – is something wrong?"

"A new Gem came from Homeworld today," you say. "Her name is Bluebird Azurite."

"Ah! A blue one!" The corners of Drakken's eyes seem to lift. "It's always nice to see another blue face besides the one in the mirror." He stops and flinches. "Oooh. No. Bad Drakken. Not talking about mirrors."

"It's really okay," you tell him.

Your hands tremble atop your knees and you can't stop them.

"Then what is it?" Drakken says.

"She's a fusion."

Drakken's lips constrict and his eyes become volcanic glass, a yellow petal flaring on either side of his neck. His palm slides clumsily over the back of your hand and your fingers feel safe in his, even though they are not much bigger nor any steadier.

"I take it she's a bad-news fusion, then?" he says.

You shrug. "I haven't met her yet. But Amethyst seemed pretty shaken up talking about her."

"And if something is scary enough to shake up Amethyst…brrrr." A shudder winds through Drakken, pulsing from his fingertips into yours, and yet you do not pull away. He stands and snaps the usual curve from his back, holding his body as straight as fishing wire. "Well, let's go scope her out, then. And I'll make sure she understands…" The fierceness drains from his eyes, leaving a blank look in its wake. "…whatever it is she needs to understand."

You would giggle were your throat not so heavy.

You lift Drakken by his wrists and fly him to the warp pad, and from below you he shouts in what seems both anxiety and delight. The warp stream grasps you and throws you from Middleton to Little Homeworld. Together the two of you begin the walk toward the temple that balances in Obsidian's palm, carved from the cliff.

When the grass turns to sand beneath your shoes, you feel a dark rush of fear.

At once, you understand that it is coming from something else. You have felt fear in many forms before, from the tangible to the ethereal, as heat behind your eyes or frost along your spine, but this is something else entirely: the fright of something that is supposed to be unshakable, constant.

The ocean is afraid. You have never sensed this from it before. It has grown nervous when you were nervous but that was merely a reflection, your worry pulled across its surface as your image would be pulled across glass.

You reach across your connection toward it. The ocean surges forward as if to touch you and then dances backward, much the way Commodore Puddles did on the porch.

You hate to leave it like this, but you cannot be of any help to it if you don't know what you are facing. You gather love from every facet of yourself and thrust it in the ocean's direction, and on legs that feel more stone than light you follow Dr. Drakken up the steps to Steven's front door. He has been talking to you ever since you left Middleton, his words choppy and unfocused and endless: "Don't worry, Lapis. I mean, you can worry, if you have to, but – but – but – nggh – just know we're all here for you, okay? We've all got your back. We'll all keep you safe."

There is truth in what he says, and you nod for his sake. It is true, yet that does not change the fact that your oldest ally cannot promise you the same.

Drakken reaches out and presses the door-chime, his finger still shaking. You study the smooth rounded bends of his face as he rests his weight on first one foot, then the other. Somehow, he looks younger right now than Steven did this morning when he filmed his advertisement.

Bismuth flings open the door. You can see only the edges of Steven's home around her wide, strong body, and it appears unchanged and unharmed, as warm and light-filled as ever.

"Hey, guys! Party's further back that way." She jerks a thumb over her shoulder.

You nod and slip past her, surprising your muscles, which are poised to turn and fly away even though the thought never entered your mind. Drakken, however, remains in the doorway, and when you glance back at him, he seems to be pondering Bismuth, the corners of his mouth tilting up.

"So what you're saying is…it's Bismuth in front and party in the back?" Drakken says. He begins to laugh, his chuckles so loud and quick they are barely stable.

"Um – yeah. I guess?" Bismuth says. She glances down at you in confusion, and you glance up at her without an explanation.

"Oh. Oh, gosh." Drakken wipes at the corners of his eyes. "Oh, right. I take it you don't know about mullets, do you?"

Bismuth shakes her head.

"I thought a mullet was a type of fish," you say.

"It is! It's also a type of hairstyle. The best type! The type I have. Short in the front" – Drakken scrapes his hand across the spines of hair that rise from his forehead and pool shallowly at his temples, then runs his fingers through the tangled strands that tumble to his shoulders – "and long in the back. So from the front, you look all straitlaced and boring, but from the back everyone can see your fun-loving side! That's why they call it 'business in front, party in the back.'"

You snort to yourself. Dr. Drakken could never look straitlaced and boring, no matter what he did to his hair.

Bismuth nods along with his words, a grin lifting her cheeks; she always loves wordplay, especially when it centers around her name. When Drakken erupts with laughter again, she throws back her head and joins him. The sound rolls off the walls and romps around the room, and for a moment you think everything will be all right after all.

Then you see her.

She is standing atop the folding table that Greg always brings to these welcoming parties, talking loudly and gesturing wildly with hands no larger than Plastic Lazuli Hope's knitted paws. She is ridiculously short for any Gem, especially a fusion; even with the table beneath her, she rises no higher than your waist. In her flesh, her hair, and the two gems on her face, blue mingles with burgundy, rust seeping into the ocean. Her wings are shaped into delicate folds that fan outward, wider than the body they frame. She appears perfectly harmless, except for the glint to her gaze: a conniving hunger that you recognize from the bottom of the ocean, shared by all creatures that live away from the light.

What you see in her is worse. The scavengers and hunters that lived in the abyss did what they did only to survive. Her single eye, darker than Pearl's yet paler than yours, holds a want that believes itself a need and will not stop until it is satisfied.

You step closer and take a more thorough look at her. A circular gem divided into perfectly square, symmetrical facets unique to Rubies eclipses her other eye. You have encountered several Rubies with this gem placement, but Steven has encountered only one, whom he called Eyeball. She seemed laughably inept when she and her squadron first landed on Earth and wagered their mission on a game of baseball and when they returned and mistook Amethyst for Jasper, but adrift in space, she tried to return the kindness of Steven's healing with the cruelty of her knife. You remember the tears on his face as he told you he had had to expel her from his bubble to save himself. He carried the guilt that should have been hers; it would not surprise you if he still does.

Beneath the Ruby gem rests a second one. As you feared, it resembles a teardrop, but its dimensions are too narrow and its color too light to match the one on your back. You are looking at Aquamarine: vicious and pragmatic, unafraid to challenge anyone of any rank or species.

You cannot explain the relief that comes over you.

She turns to face you straight on. There is an ambivalence to her movements, as though she hears two voices telling her to turn in different directions. You remember Jasper slamming her soul against yours until it finally broke through, and your limbs go brittle.

"'Ello, ello, ello! Bluebird Azurite, atch'er service," she says, her words streaking together like wet paint. You see a sliver of black in her mouth where her front teeth do not quite meet. It reminds you of the space in Sardonyx's mouth, and yet it is nothing like the space in Sardonyx's mouth. "Anyone for a lil' snack?"

She holds out a plate topped with improbable contents: a pool of something muddy brown that smells of both salt and sweetness; strands of grass, spread widely with dirt still attached to their roots; and Howlite-gray circles you recognize as clams. Almost without thought, you reach toward one, to stroke its jaw and see if you can convince it to open for you, but when you touch it, it is cold and tough, and you know it will never choose to open again. It is dead.

You drop your hand and back away.

Dr. Drakken springs forward to take your place with a cry of, "Oooh, peanut butter!" He swipes his longest finger through the brown smudge and pops it between his lips, his eyes squinting shut in pleasure. You stare at him, certain that at any moment he too will stiffen and need Steven to revive him. Nothing happens, however, and he taps a clam, his fingertips lively and curious as ever. "Did you make these yourself?"

You are glad he was the one to ask that question and not you; from you, it would have been as cold and pointed as an icicle, and you don't know if you would have been able to keep from driving it through her.

"Sure did, love." Bluebird looks at him and winks. Drakken blinks back at her, his black eyes bewildered but not afraid.

He doesn't know who she is, you realize.

A small, energetic body throws itself between you and Drakken before you can take him by the arm and explain. You give Peridot's hand a squeeze and search the room for Steven. He stands near the back, tucked into a corner and into an anxious circle with Garnet, Amethyst, and Pearl, as you have seen teams of athletes stand on television. His eyes find you, nervous and clinging to yours, and he jerks his head toward the short hallway that leads to his bathroom.

You nod back at him, snagging Drakken's arm in one hand and Peridot's in the other. Watermelon Tourmaline and the Nephrites advance on Bluebird and block her from your view as you drag your best friend and your boyfriend down the hallway, Drakken ducking under the white banner where someone has written "WELCOME, BLUEBIRD" in bright naïve letters.

The seven of you file into Steven's bathroom, which almost isn't big enough to hold everyone. Steven clamps the door shut behind him and then sags against it, the knob pressed between his shoulder blades. He sighs, but it is Dr. Drakken who speaks first.

"Okay, so it looked like everyone recognized that little gal except me." He paces a narrow pathway in front of the bathtub, and his eyes run from you to Steven to Peridot and back again. "Somebody want to catch me up?"

Steven lets out another sigh, and he seems tired and repressed, like a geyser overdue to spout. "She's a fusion of Eyeball and Aquamarine." When the confusion does not dissipate from Drakken's face, he adds, "Eyeball – the Gem who tried to kill me in outer space? And Aquamarine, Topaz's old partner? The one who tried to kidnap everyone and almost killed all of us?"

"Little Lisa," Drakken murmurs. For a moment he smiles, and for a moment the room lightens up. "She couldn't find Mydad. I mean, not my father, specifically, but –"

He continues to speak, and your insides shiver. That's true. He did interact with her before he knew who she was, before Steven surrendered himself to her and was taken to Homeworld to stand trial.

A wild look leaps into Drakken's eyes, horror realized. "So I was right. She is a bad-news fusion."

You decide to sink to the floor while you still have a choice, pulling your long legs up under you to avoid crowding anyone else and letting your arms fall across your knees without bothering to hide their trembling. "Do you think she's the one who's been pranking you?"

Drakken's bark-smear eyebrow rises. "'Pranking'?"

"Today, someone taped a sign reading 'Tell Me I Smell Good' to Steven's back, replaced his juice pouch with soup-of-tomato, and stacked bathroom tissue on the roof of his van, in that order," Peridot reports. She perches on the toilet seat with ease and familiarity, her feet not quite brushing the ground.

"Oh," Drakken says. "That's…kinda funny, actually." He catches Amethyst glaring at him and quickly adds, "But not that funny."

"Do you think that weird food could be another prank, too?" Amethyst says.

The room falls into silence for a few minutes, a silence partially thoughtful and partially, you imagine, stunned at Amethyst describing any combination of food as "weird."

"Allergens."

Everyone turns to look at Pearl.

"Peanuts, grass pollen, and shellfish. Three of the most common allergens for human beings." Pearl's fingers tighten around the sink. "She might have been trying to induce an allergic reaction."

An allergy, you know, is when a single human body breaks down in a response to a substance which most other humans can tolerate; they can do anything from raise welts to halt breathing. That is not a prank.

"And I thought the clams were bad enough on their own," you say. Your voice is dark as a night tide, hissing from a facet of you that you did not know was still open.

Drakken tilts his head. "I think seafood's actually pretty good, provided it's prepared the right way. It's a pretty delicate balance –"

"She made them herself," you interrupt him. "She killed something. From the ocean."

Drakken gasps, and the room goes silent once more. You try not to imagine Bluebird listening from outside the door, her smile sharp and broken. No wonder the ocean was afraid.

"Allergies. It's possible." Garnet speaks for the first time, leaning into the sink, her fingers trailing the faucet in thought. "It's also possible she has no idea what food is."

"You mean, it's possible she's not here to try and kill me?" Steven says.

"In multiple futures, yes. In multiple other futures, she quickly discovers that her pranks aren't managing to ruin your life, and she simply leaves in frustration."

Drakken shudders. You imagine he can empathize.

You blink for a moment and attempt to see the futures where Bluebird in spite of everything does not become an enemy. You want to believe you are living in one of those futures now; you are tired of fighting, tired of suspicion. Yet a Gem who subsisted on power the way humans subsist on food, and another who tried to destroy her healer – you cannot imagine they would find tomato soup and toilet paper to be sufficient revenge.

"So…I was right." Dr. Drakken repeats himself. "She is bad news." He nods in tandem with his own words, willing them to be true.

Peridot frowns, her eyes distant as though she is looking at something far behind her rather than her dangling feet. "Yes, but… so was I," she says to Steven. "Remember the time I trapped you and your associates in the Nephrites' ship and proceeded to attack you with every piece of – admittedly primitive – weaponized technology they had? I actually remembering screaming, 'Die, die, die, die, die!'"

You snort as the words which should be frightening squeeze through Peridot's nose.

Steven's chest shakes with his next breath. "Yeah. I remember, all right." He glances at Garnet, his gaze drifting like a fishing cork bobbing atop the water, searching for whatever dwells beneath the surface. "Garnet – are there any futures where she's changed? Really changed?"

"There are. And many others where she hasn't. I also see a few where she is greatly confused and has no real plan." Garnet presses her lips together; she appears uncomfortable, a look foreign enough to chill you. "I don't know her well enough to know which one is right."

The idea sinks into the center of your gemstone, your revulsion rippling into something softer and more pliable. You close your eyes and see the lasers built into Drakken's machines ripping buildings apart, see a planet break under the weight of its own ocean. Bluebird's fire and ice components are not the first to take refuge in darkness.

Drakken's eyes wait there for you when you open yours. His forehead is a mass of lines, his face so earnest as he studies his choices like vials of chemicals. He squeezes your hand.

"I guess if there's even a chance that she changed, we should give it a shot." Steven says what you imagined he would say, but not in the way you imagined him saying it. He sounds resigned, the voice of a captain who has accepted the waves will claim his boat and crew, and for a moment the connection that holds you to him seems to weaken. "Right?"

Garnet wears no expression. She peers down at her fingers and nods, and you wish you could talk to Ruby alone. She at least will be able to tell you how it feels to stand opposed to other Gems who Emerged from the same plot of ground that you did.

"I think it's worth it," Peridot says. "Just imagine how many lovable friends you would have missed out on if you hadn't given them the opportunity to change. Not the least of which is me!"

"Gee, P-Dot, don't be so modest," Amethyst quips. Her playful grin firms. "Still, the little nerd makes a good point."

Pearl gives a small, nervous laugh of more air than substance. "There's always a chance she's rebelled against the rebellion, isn't there?"

"Yeah. There is."

You surprise even yourself when the words come out of your mouth, and you do not flinch as you once would have from the faces which turn toward you. Everyone is this room is your ally; you know this for certain, even though Earth has only orbited the sun three times since you dared to believe it true.

"I mean…she's a fusion of two different types of Gems, and Homeworld was totally not okay with that," you continue. You push away the memory of the hate in Jasper's eyes when she cut them toward Garnet and shrug. "If she wants to bring back all of Homeworld's old rules, why would she break one of the biggest ones?"

The room hushes again as the question hangs unanswered. Amethyst turns to Pearl with her palms up, and Pearl shakes her head. Even she does not know.

You lean against the wall and try not to shiver at the thought of the fusion outside the bathroom door. You do not trust her; it is both too soon and too late for that. But to turn her away with nothing is to betray a part of yourself as elemental as the sea's whisper.

"So…it's settled, then?" Drakken says. His fingers tumble around each other and his legs vibrate beneath him, driving his heels into the side of the bath basin. "All in favor, say aye?"

"Aye!" The word reverberates from every part of the room, some exclamations clear and true, others cautious and fragile.

"All opposed?" Drakken says.

Emptiness greets him.

With a sigh, Steven peels away from the door, straightens, and turns, his hands clenching the knob. "Okay, then. I guess we're doing this."

He slides the bathroom door open, and the muffled chaos of the party rushes toward you again. Bluebird still stands in the center of the table, laughing with a group of Quartzes who must have arrived while you were in the bathroom. The peanut butter has all but vanished from the plate she holds, leaving behind only the slices of grass and the motionless clams, and it is all you can do to smile at her. You and your family walk up to her and gaze down upon her with hope and possibility.

She does not deserve it.

Neither did you.

"Well, welcome back, everyone!" Bluebird calls. She flutters off the table and lands at your feet. "I was startin' to wonder where you'd run off to."

You study her. Her eye, what you can see of it within the amalgamated blue and red, does appear confused. If she were one of the Lapises, her eyes would be sharp as mirror fragments and you would have to struggle to meet them.

"Sorry to worry ya," Steven says. "We were just trying to figure out what would be the best part of Earth to show you first."

It is almost not a lie, and you watch Bluebird take it in, tilting a head several sizes too large for her body, oversized like a swelling wound. The gem on her cheek catches the light and drags it in, and you wish you knew what lived inside it. Is it too looking for innocence and absolution, or does it press as angrily as the words gouged into the paper she stuck to Steven's back?

Amethyst goes over to Bluebird and drapes a stocky arm across her shoulders. Even Amethyst, you notice, easily dwarfs her. "Yeah, we thought maybe you'd wanna come see what a real Earth snack is. No offense to your clams and grass or anything, but once you've been to Boardwalk Fries or The Big Donut, you'll forget all about 'em, I promise." Her tone is as informal as ever, but she holds her body like it is as tight and immovable as the stone peeking from the hole in her shirt.

Bluebird folds her arms and tilts her head in the other direction. The blue in her eye seems to deepen, and for an instant you remember the eyes of the other Ruby, the one Steven called Navey: absorbing everything quickly and parceling out what she showed in return, straining away any hint of the fear or disgust it would be natural for her to feel. Only her uncontrolled laughter as she tossed Steven out of her ship ended up being sincere.

Steven trudges forward, his eyes exhausted with the burden of what he must do next, and you determine to take it from him. You approach Bluebird and lean your hip casually against the side of the table. "So, Bluebird, what brings you to Earth?" you say. You hear the same question you have asked scores of other Gems, though your shy, inquisitive tone has hardened.

Dr. Drakken's warm hands rest on the backs of your shoulders, prepared, you suspect, to descend and cover your gem at the first sign of a threat.

"Well, things on Homeworld had gotten absolutely crazy lately. Am I right?" Bluebird exchanges glances with a recently arrived Lemon Jade fusion who nods in commiseration. "The Diamonds confiscating weapons, allowing us to fuse whenever and wherever we wanted so long as we had the other Gem's permission. I didn't know what in the cosmos was going on until White Diamond read that little book to us. You know –" she holds out her hands, open and level, like pages – "the one that told us what had really become of Pink Diamond and how she left behind a son. And I knew I just had to meet this Steven Universe."

The blunt broken edges of her lie poke at you. You clench your jaw to keep it from listing open, and you feel Drakken's hands tighten on your shoulders. Her eye flickers up to his face; if she recognizes him, she does not show it. She is already lying.

A tiny inconsistency at the back of your mind tells you your judgment is unfair. Perhaps she has only been untruthful because she is desperate for a clean start. You remember how you stared at the ruins of the Galaxy Warp and told Steven that you were sent to "visit" Earth for a short time, protecting both him and yourself from the destructive being you once were.

Bluebird continues to watch you. Her hair lies against her head, sleek and limp as seal's fur, and the briny scent of the sea clings to it. You wonder if you smell the same way, if all the Gems who can manipulate the ocean smell the same way.

You glance down at the fingerprints that belong to you alone and advance another step. "So, Bluebird – do you like books?" You remember the tears balancing on Amethyst's eyelashes as she told you Steven had been kidnapped, and you don't want to offer Bluebird anything of Earth. You want to shun her, deny her the life she could find here, but you once felt the same toward Peridot.

"Well. I liked White Diamond's book, for sure. All the books we had from before then were hopelessly archaic. From six thousand years or so ago," Bluebird says, her voice as sweet as spring rainfall. The look in her eye matches it, as though she is completely unaware that she speaks to a Gem who remembers those books.

Your powers roar to life within your gem, and yet the rest of your senses seem to grow dull, as if they are not wholly yours. You reply to her: "Yeah, well, I can take you to a place where they have a ton of books that are newer and more interesting," and the words sound bright and hopeful, nothing like what you feel inside.

"You can? There are books on Earth?" Bluebird creeps closer and her face looks genuinely surprised. "They can grow them here? Without a Diamond to do it or anything?"

You want to laugh, a strange sensation when your back has become a streak of ice, held together by a lake of fire in the shape of a raindrop. "Yeah. And they're not all boring textbooks about colonization and soil nutrients," you say, dimly aware when Peridot squeaks in protest beside you. "My favorite books on Earth are the ones with stories in them. Pretend ones."

"Lies?" Bluebird says.

"Not lies." You press your hand atop Drakken's to quash the tide of angry noises sure to spiral from his lips soon. "Fiction. Meaning someone makes up their own character who isn't even real, and they make up their own plot to put the character in, and they can do whatever they want with it because it's their story. And sometimes that's frustrating because they don't always do what you think they should, but," you say with a shrug, "it's still their choice."

You hold her gaze with yours and watch it narrow, ever so slightly, at what she hears in your voice. "Lovely," she says with a flit of her wings, her own voice gentle and peaceful. "So where is this Book Kindergarten that you can take me, then?"

"It's called a library," you say. "They let you look at any book you want, and they even let you borrow them and take them home for a while." You take a step forward so your feet are even with the table; even inside your shoes, they still feel bare and vulnerable. "As long as they can trust you to bring it back."

Bluebird leans her head back and lets out a laugh that is the opposite of Pearl's, thick and puffed, seeming to clog the room like smoke.

"Smashing!" she says. "I'd love to go see it. Sometime tomorrow maybe, after I've settled in somewhat."

She smiles at you, and the strongest part of you manages to turn your lips up in return. To Lemon Jade and the Quartzes listening nearby, it must sound as if the two of you have just had a pleasant conversation and are looking forward to spending more time together, but you can feel an empty place like the one between her top teeth where you and she do not quite meet, her intentions as hidden from you as yours are from her.

Your surroundings seem to slide out of focus until Dr. Drakken turns and bolts for the front door, trying to outrun the tempest that must be inside him. You follow him onto Steven's deck, and he pulls you close against his coat-of-labs, the rods of his ribs heaving back and forth against your sides. Pearl appears in the doorway, pale concerned eyes pointed your way, though they seem steadier now, less likely to overflow.

"You two doing okay?" she asks.

Neither of you answers and she nods to herself, as though she understands how foolish a question that was.

Dr. Drakken's fingers quiver and fall to your elbows. Any warmth your physical form has retained comes from contact with him, and he is a ship tossed in a hurricane, torn free of its moorings. "What a crock of baloney," he grumbles, his chin moving softly against your head. "And I thought I was a bad liar."

"You are," you say. "I can't even start to imagine you telling that many at once. You'd explode or something."

"Eww." Drakken shakes his head. "I could have done without that thought."

You let yourself remain a little longer in the normalcy of the moment, like calm water lapping at your ankles, before you turn to Pearl. "But we can't prove she's out to hurt anyone, can we?" When Pearl shakes her head, you add, "Which means it would be wrong to just assume she is."

"Innocent until proven guilty!" Drakken takes a ragged breath. "Nggh, why does that have to apply to people I don't like, too?"

You grin at his honesty, but Pearl's mouth is still somber. "That doesn't mean we can't take precautions, though," she says. "We're going to have at least one person with her every minute, guarding her – in a kind and friendly way, of course. After all, there's no reason we can't show her a better life and keep an eye on her at the same time!"

The breeze snaps her jacket against her arms, determination sliding over her face. You picture her as you saw her in Era One, a sword folded in each fist, swerving to take down Homeworld soldiers on every side; you picture her as you saw her in Era Two, leaning over Steven's shoulder to speak to him, her grip firm and gentle on the mirror as she eased it into his hands. Both memories are painful, yet somehow in this moment you are glad to have them.

Drakken kicks at the deck, scattering sand into the air. "I just don't know how civil anyone can expect me to be toward her," he says. "I mean, I can probably stop myself from inventing a ray that will burn her to a crisp, but I make no promises!"

"Yikes." You turn to him. "I didn't know you hated her that much."

"I didn't either, until I saw her again." Drakken's voice burns in his chest. "Until I realized that if she hadn't kidnapped Steven, he never would have gone to Homeworld to see the Diamonds, and you wouldn't have gotten so freaked out, and you wouldn't have –"

"Left," you finish for him. Your numbed fingertips brush against the petal that protrudes from his neck and feeling begins to seep back into them. "But, Drakken, that was my choice. A really sucky one. And I'm so sorry it hurt you."

A whine leaks from Drakken's throat. "Yes, but – I want to be mad at her, not you!"

His lower lip tugs outward in the familiar endearing pout. You let yourself giggle a little, but Bluebird's image stains your thoughts and the flow of them cannot wash her away. Peridot appears between Pearl's leg and the doorframe, her face a stern line, the face you remember from Yellow Diamond's Interrogation Room.

"What's up, Peri?" you say. You want, suddenly, to see her smile.

She doesn't. "The Quartzes were playing a 'getting-to-know-you' game with Bluebird Azurite. Afterward, I absconded with a sample of her handwriting. Here, check this out."

Peridot holds out a thin piece of lined paper filled with words that posit to want to learn about music, books, and the human life cycle. Her other hand clutches the sign that she removed from Steven's back, commanding everyone to compliment his smell. You do not look at them as closely as Peridot does, her eyes astute behind her visor, yet you cannot deny the similarities.

"They match. So it was her." You are surprised by how calm you sound considering your wings bunch in your gem, hoping to siphon strength from each other.

"Affirmative." Peridot gives an uncharacteristically listless sigh. "However, that does not prove much other than that she played a few harmless pranks on him. She might have even considered them to be signs of affection."

Dr. Drakken nods. "I mean, there are worse things in the world than being told you smell good, right? Heck, there are even worse things in the world than being told you smell bad!" He laughs, but you can feel his heartbeat through his fingers, the blood roaring like white waves, and you understand why. The realization that Steven is inside the house, meters away from Gems who were once fully prepared to take his life, would pain your organs as well, had you any.

You admit that to this group of people whom you do not fear: "I don't like knowing that Steven's inside with her. I mean, I get that there are like twenty Quartzes there too and they'd absolutely protect him, but – still."

"I don't like the thought of you going with her to the library tomorrow," Drakken tells you. "Just imagine what she might try!"

"In a library?" Your words are light, your back endeavoring to be the same. "What could she try there? Even if she did, I could poof her with an encyclopedia or something."

Drakken smiles, though it is as thin as the hand that clenches around yours. You picture the kindness on Kim Possible's face when she looks at him, seeing him as a friend now; you must try to mold yourself around its shape, no matter how strange it may seem.

You must try to reach Bluebird.

The next morning, you awaken with the ocean's wariness tumbling beside yours and find you have no certainty to give it, only hope delicate as water vapor. The ocean accepts it, but only, you know, because it has never questioned you. It still feels Bluebird's presence like a polluted runoff, a part of it with the capacity to destroy everything it loves.

"Wish me luck," you say to Peridot as you open your front door.

"'Luck' isn't nearly a concrete enough concept to wish someone." She swipes a commanding arm through the air. "Go out and win her over with the power of books!"

"Yes, ma'am," you say with a smile.

When you ask Bixbyite about Bluebird's whereabouts, you are directed to Greg's van, which sits on the grass near the entrance to Little Homeworld, its doors tilted slightly outward. A stream of light pulses between them, erratic as a collapsing star, and a shrill, unfamiliar scream accompanies it. "Look out – it's right behind you!" Greg calls.

Tension stretches his voice, but not harshly enough to make you believe his life is at risk. They are playing, you realize, allowing your powers to fall back in relief.

You nudge the doors further apart and stick your head between. The television box that Greg keeps in his van flashes with the image of a creature so similar to a Corrupted Jasper that you would shudder were it not clearly crafted from hard paper and unprofessionally welded together. Greg sits before the box, one arm slung over his bent knee. Bluebird is rigid next to him, her legs straight in front of her and her feet together in a pose that reminds you of a doll you once saw in the Middleton mall's toy store: sculpted from something fragile, its eyes wide and unblinking, its limbs incapable of movement. A splash of words on the box read "FOR DISPLAY PURPOSES ONLY," and you wondered why anyone would purchase a toy that cannot be handled.

Her gaze slides to yours and then back to the screen.

"Hey, Greg." You fill your eyes with him so they can reflect warmth and trust when you turn from him to her. "Hey, Bluebird. What're you doing?"

Greg lifts the television controller and presses a button, freezing the image on the screen. "Oh, I was just showing Bluebird some really old and really bad horror movies. From my personal collection of faves."

"Oh." You feel your lips wavering between uneasiness and disdain; hopefully this will be a natural enough expression for Bluebird to accept. You like scary stories, whispered late in the night to friends like Steven and Peridot and kept safe in books where your mind can do whatever it likes with them. It is another thing entirely to watch it play out in detail on a glass surface that brings even the unreal to a haunting clarity. "What's this one called?"

Greg doesn't even bother to glance at the paper containers that hold his rectangular tapes, older than the disks you see at the library. "This is The Beast With No Eyes. And before that, we saw Knife Maniac."

"That sounds…awful," you say, and Greg grins. "Wouldn't you rather go to the library, Bluebird?"

Bluebird cocks her swollen head once more. "Why, yes, I think I might rather. You wouldn't be too offended, would you, Greg?"

His name in her mouth is like the sight of the creature on the screen: removed from reality and yet too close to you, demanding attention.

"'Course not. I mean, gosh, that sounds a lot nicer than all this crud. More educational, too." Greg winks at you. "Am I right, Lapis?"

"Completely," you say.

Greg presses another button, and the television goes blank. "Well, have fun, kids. We'll pick up later, okay, Bluebird?"

"Right-o!" Bluebird turns and each part of her body seems unconnected to the next, as though they are being divided between quarreling parties. Even her wings spring in separate directions as they lift her from the floor to your eye level. "I can't wait for this."

You nod to her and start to take a step forward, only to be stopped by a crowd of raucous, rowdy Gems who come streaming up the grass from the beach. You draw back and, without thinking, draw your arm over Bluebird to shield her. Heavy feet push past you, and Snowflake Obsidian leads the pack with Little Larimar on her shoulder and a stiff white sphere you recognize as a volleyball tucked beneath her arm.

At the back of the group is Topaz, laughing as a Quartz pounds her on the back. Bluebird's single eye grows so wide you almost expect it to crack from the pressure, then shrivels and saddens, and in that moment you are looking at something true.

Then it fades, and she is a staring doll again.

Once the crowd has passed, Bluebird slips her hand into yours. It is no colder than any other Gem's and not as strong as you would have expected of a fusion, and somehow you resist the urge to yank yours away immediately.

"Shall we go?" she says. The syllables still roll into one another, obscuring whatever clues may lie between them.

"I guess so."

Bluebird launches herself into the sky, and you follow closely behind, the world passing in a blur of color. You hear the flutter of her wings beside you, and the only way you can avoid splintering is to keep your eyes away from her. The last time you flew next to another Elite, looking down on a planet, nothing survived.

It does not take long to reach the library, the sight of which is a warm wave along your spine as you land; you have accompanied Steven, Connie, and Peridot here many times, though the person who introduced you to it was Dr. Drakken. You open one of the front doors, its sweep wide and sharp, and allow Bluebird to walk in ahead of you, which you hope she will interpret as a kind gesture. You are not going to turn your back on her.

Your shoes cross the entrance, and you smile to yourself as the library immerses you in itself: the quiet walls designed to muffle all noise; the still room constellated by areas of activity; and the rows and rows of books resting on shelves with their covers together and their words hidden, teasing and shy, like coral polyps waiting to open. Bluebird, too, stands without moving, her gaze traveling to all the same places yours do. A callow part of you finds it unimaginable that this place could fail to change someone, but the rest of you knows enough to suspect differently.

"Pretty nice, huh?" you say.

"Why, yeah, I s'pose." Bluebird continues to scan the lines of shelves. "Where do we go first?"

"Over here."

You place your fingers on her shoulder and steer her toward the section of the library where the walls are spaced farthest apart and lead her past the open plain with its small cozy tables and away from the chair you cherish, the chair where you sat alongside Drakken and felt the fragility of his hip against yours as the book unfolded between you, satisfying your eyes with things they did not even know they wanted. The aisles filled with long, square books meant for the youngest of humans will have to be good enough for her.

You kneel on the carpet and let your fingers run over the books much the way you have seen Sapphire run her fingers through Ruby's hair. You decided a while ago which book you wanted Bluebird to discover first. It comes free with a pull, and you gaze down at its cover, a night sky painted a blue to match your eyes, the last shade of blue it turns before becoming black, and stars depicted in gentle yellow as if they are not writhing masses of flames with gravity powerful enough to ensnare a planet. A little boy stands in the center of the cover, his face curious and frightened, like Steven's was when you showed him how to release you from the mirror.

"I'm gonna read this to you, okay?" You tuck your legs up under you and pat the floor beside you as you have done with Peridot so many times.

Bluebird's neck draws back, as though you have insulted her. "I can read, thank you very much." You hear a Ruby's temper and an Elite's entitlement like swords clashing together.

You close your eyes and shake your head. "Of course you can," you say, your voice sounding strangely kind. "But there's something really nice about being read to. Come on. Please?"

Bluebird sinks to the floor and resumes her doll's posture. She is small enough that her feet do not touch the shelf across the aisle from her; she is small enough that any passing human would assume her to be a child and you her caretaker.

You open the book to its first page and begin: "Once upon a time, there was a very dark forest."

The forest and the village that borders it are always dark, the book explains, because they were placed under a curse eons ago. The farther you travel into the forest, the thicker the dark becomes. One day, a little boy, whom the story never names, accidentally chases a black-masked creature called a raccoon into the forest and becomes lost. Frightened, he stumbles around until he finds the Wise Old Owl, who tells him about a magical sword that can send the darkness away. It lies in the center of the blackest part of the forest, and everyone who came before him has been too afraid of the dark to try to find it. Though the boy tries to be brave and strong, he too is afraid and can only make it to the center of the forest with the help of the raccoon he chased, a deer, and a wolf – because "no one can overcome the darkness alone."

You watch Bluebird as you turn the pages, pointing how out rich the hues of the pictures are and inviting her to place her hand in the middle of the soft and slightly crumpled pages to feel their imperfect, comforting texture. Her face is nothing like this book. It offers no pictures, no words.

The last page depicts the boy lifting the sword that the deer pried from the ground with his antlers as light slowly reaches for the village. "It has to come slowly," you tell her, "or it'd blind them after they'd been in the dark that long. Drakken told me that the first time we read it."

Bluebird hauls the book from your hands when you close it, and a hollow silence descends over the aisles. She lifts the book into the air and rotates it sideways, turning it from a square into a diamond. You wonder what the shape means to her now, if anything. For you, it is heavy with memories and emotions, each contradicting the one before it.

"Is that it, then?" she says.

"Yeah." You find yourself smiling at her. "Did you like it?"

"I…suppose." She looks at you, her expression a cloud of confusion. You do not know if she fails to understand, or if she tries to understand.

You ease the book from her grasp and hold it close to you. "I picked that book for a reason. Because it reminds me a lot of us. The Gems, I mean. We were all kind of wandering around in the dark before, weren't we? I know I was." You form solid, regular breaths and push them out as you stare at her, surprised at how much you wish to catch another glimpse of what you saw when Topaz walked by. "And then came Era Three. And Steven."

Bluebird breaks into a grin, the stones on her face glinting. "Too right! We couldn't be ourselves on Homeworld, either! Everything was so…strict. So many rules. They wouldn't even let us fuse, so I couldn't even be me. So when I heard about this place called Earth where things were different, I knew I'd love it here."

The words are bright and twisted, as artificial as the teeth you clench. It is not, then, a failure to understand, but a refusal. She will not set down the lie.

To your surprise, you feel tears building for her – not in your eyes, but in the deepest reaches of your gemstone.

You hold her gaze with your own. "Bluebird," you say, "are you telling us the truth?"

She smiles like the expression means nothing to her, not even a goal she hopes to reach. "Of course."

"Do you promise? Because you can talk to us about anything, you know." You sound tender; inside you are desperate, begging her to let herself be saved.

Bluebird drags her finger across her chest, where blue and red patches stand as though in opposition. "Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye."

---

"She said what?" Dr. Drakken gapes at you over the top of Pumpkin's head as she turns in circles in his lap, her vine of a trail wiggling.

"'Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.'"

"Don't tempt me," Drakken grouses. His face falls into a scowl that darkens and lines it yet cannot undo its innate gentleness. You doubt he could win in a fight against Bluebird, yet somehow you feel safer with him here.

You smile a little as you lean back against the front wall of your house, pulling one arm around your knees and hooking the wrist with your other hand. Even as the strength of the sun's rays finds your eyes, nothing burns away the image of Bluebird's meaningless smile and the moment you watched hope be consumed like a sandcastle by the tide.

"So she's lying," Drakken says.

"Obviously. Everything she's said so far has been a lie. But she hasn't done anything, you know?"

The corners of Drakken's eyes sag at the sadness in your voice, but you are happy to dwell beneath that sadness; it tempers the impulse to classify Bluebird as an enemy. It is an impulse that should have weakened over the past several years of peace, yet it rises again as easily as floodwaters.

"Gkkkn." He scratches Pumpkin's stem. "Does part of you wish she would just go ahead and do it – just get it over with already?"

You stare at him for a moment. Once again, he has taken a feeling which baffles you, even shames you, and spun it into a question that requires only a brief and honest answer. "Yeah. But I feel bad about that, too. I mean, it's not like I want her to hurt somebody."

"Oh, no, of course you don't!" Drakken says in a rush. "But you also don't want to look at her day in and day out and always wonder if this'll be the day she strikes. The little brat." The edge of his lip curls, though not into a smile, and his buoy-words churn in bitter brackish waves. "Like me having to work with Will Du. You remember Agent Du from Global Justice, right?"

The picture of a young man with tight eyes and graceful, wary movements comes into your mind, and you nod.

"Well, Global Justice is working on this huge project, something in response to the alien – err, the Lorwardian invasion, and all the branches are working together, which I mean have to work with Agent Du every day! He just goes on and on and on about extraterrestrial life forms as if he's ever met one! Sweeping generalizations, the whole shebang. Like he's so great just because he became their best agent ever at age sixteen and can speak, like, fifty thousand languages and land a fighter jet blindfolded." Drakken stops, blinks. "Well…yes, that is pretty great.

"But he thinks he's all th –" Drakken pauses again and swallows, as though trying to free his mouth from the taste of something foul. "Thinks he's so cool. He even thinks he's cooler than Kim Possible. Can you believe that?"

You are not sure which part Drakken is inquiring if you believe: that Will Du could be cooler than Kim Possible, or that he could think himself cooler than Kim Possible. Either question has the same answer. You shake your head.

"I know. The arrogance!" Drakken splays his fingers across his chest. "And that's me saying that."

You giggle. From the direction of Peridot's greenhouse, you can hear the chatter of Quartzes, their voices rough and heavy as pumice, asking Peridot questions about the seedlings she has given them to plant or calling her over to examine their seedlings once they have transferred them from plastic pouches to the solid pots which they painted in your meepmorp class last week.

"Anyway, he was really going at it yesterday, and Dr. Director actually scolded him for once. She told him – this is what she said –" Drakken straightens up and levels his shoulders as he pretends to be someone else, someone with organic confidence where his is still often synthetic. "She said, 'Agent Du, while I think we can all appreciate your vigilance, you simply cannot treat every unknown as a threat that needs to be neutralized.' Isn't that great?"

"I bet he didn't think so," you say with a grin.

"Oh, wait, it gets better." He pats Pumpkin, who has nestled happily into the crook of his elbow. "He was so incensed about it that he stalked right out of the room and totally missed the sign in the hallway that said 'Caution – Wet Floor'. He slipped and fell right on his hiney! I had to leave the room so I wouldn't guffaw!"

Drakken starts to laugh now, but the sound jerks to a stop in his throat. The dark eyes turn to his lap, looking mournful and frustrated, and you understand what you see: his intolerance for even the smallest trickle of bad within himself, fearing it will evolve into something steady and streaming. "I guess it isn't very good-guy-ish of me to gloat."

His voice dwindles in regret. You shake your head at him. "Even good guys feel those things," you say, resting your hand on his arm. "It's not like you tripped him. And it's not like he fell and died, and you still thought it was funny."

Drakken's eyes flick up to you, and the gratitude which peeks from them is almost shy. "So – anyway – what happened after Bluebird invited you to stick a needle in her eye?"

You shrug. "We hung around the library for a little while and then went home. Oh, I guess I checked out a book first."

"Ooh, really? What kind of book?"

"It's a mystery. I think." You feel yourself frown. "So far it's pretty weird."

"Weird-good or weird-bad?"

"I'm not sure yet." You let your hands fall open, and Pumpkin reaches over to lick them with her seed-studded tongue. "The main character, the guy who's telling the story, keeps saying a lot of things, and a bunch of them contradict each other. Like any of them could be true, but all of them can't be true together. Connie told me that depending on how carefully the book was written, that could be either a continuity error or something called an 'unreliable narrator.'" You and Connie will probably never be close, yet both of you love books and both of you love Steven; that is enough.

"Unreliable narrator? Brrr," Drakken says, his shoulders twitching. "I don't think I'd like that any. Like going on a vacation with an unreliable tour guide. Imagine touring Indonesia, and the guy showing you around doesn't know which volcanos are dormant and which ones are active!"

You don't imagine this; you are unsettled enough already. "Except the worst that can happen with a book is that you get a little confused."

"Which is bad enough!" Drakken replies.

"Yeah, but it beats bathing in lava. Unless you're Bismuth."

"True dat." Pumpkin's tail strikes Drakken's cheek, and he sputters. "I'd love to help you solve the mystery. In your book, I mean. Once both of us know the exact places of contradiction, surely our collaborative brainpower can find the truth!"

Once again, he has converted everything to a science.

"Okay," you say. "I think I left in my studio – I'll go grab it real quick."

Drakken waves and Pumpkin yips as you take off from the ground and fly over the greenhouse, the forge, and the welcoming center to a small, oblong building tucked behind them and to the side, somewhat removed but not hidden. As soon as you open its door and walk in, your worries fall away, like the ocean at the place where it drops from solid sandy floor to openness.

Sunlight slides through the windows, and the plain, pinkish-gray walls collect and preserve it for cooler days. At the midpoint of the room stands your latest meepmorp, an enormous stone which Bismuth overturned rearranging the earth for the forge with the landscape of Kanatar painted across it, fluttering sheets of thin paper nailed to it to represent the thawing ocean. Above and below it, shelves and racks line the walls, holding bins stuffed with drawings, paintings, and other meepmorps; special leaves you have found; and some of your favorite of the pretend animal toys. The layout is too rumpled and imprecise to meet Pearl's approval, yet unlike Amethyst, you have not strewn your keepsakes wherever they would fit. You know where everything belongs and you have placed it there.

You turn the corner where the wall curves and lift the bottom of your bag-of-beans chair, your favorite place to store the books you are currently reading, and you tug the book free. The cover looks even darker and more serious in this private, windowless nook where a light bulb seems to grow out of the top of the wall, casting light across the bag-of-beans chair and the picture that hangs above it, a portrait of two humans of some relation to Greg. You have never met them and you do not know them, but they were the original owners of the barn, and somehow this picture that once hung there survived its destruction – though the simple wooden frame that originally held it did not, and Bismuth had to create a copy. You lift your eyes to it now and allow yourself to remember, then walk away.

The door sighs shut behind you, and before you can return to your house, the ocean interrupts you. Too far away to see, it gives a tremendous heave, the way Drakken does when he is deep in his nightmares. You can feel no discernable message from it, only fear.

You do not get the chance to ask it what is wrong. In a moment, a sound spills through the air from the direction of the beach, and though it is diluted slightly by distance, panic and pain sharpen it to a blade's edge.

It is a scream, a noise that would quicken your powers even if you did not recognize the voice. But you do recognize it, and the familiarity of it threatens to drown you in guilt. It is a scream you first heard when a spout of water thrust a van into the air and sent it soaring before it landed with a crushing of metal and a cracking of bone.

It is Greg.