_ _ _ _
Alone
Inside Krystal's empty apartment, the phone rings. It's late. She's not asleep, but she's not inside. The answering machine beeps.
"Uh, hey Krystal. It's Fox. I'm sorry for calling so late - I'm sorry for calling at all, really. I don't know. I just saw Peppy, he's not doing well. He thinks I'm my father, keeps calling me James. Keeps apologizing and I guess it got me thinking that he isn't the one who should be apologizing to anyone, really. We're setting course for Venom tomorrow, trying to sort this whole thing out. I'm not asking for you to come back, I know you won't. I wouldn't want you to feel obligated to do that even if you did. I just. I made a lot of mistakes. I took you for granted. I took everything for granted. I wish I could go back and change all that but time's arrow marches forward. You can't fix the past, no matter how sorry you are or how much regret you carry with you. I carry a lot, but I don't want you to feel sorry for me. Or anything like that. I guess I just wanted you to know that I am sorry and maybe to say goodbye. I don't know if I'll ever be back. I just wanted you to know that I'm sorry and I still-" * beep *
And Fox's words are reduced to a blinking one on an answering machine.
Outside on the balcony, Krystal dabs her brush in white paint and dots it across the dark canvas as she looks up to the sky for reference.
Intergalactic war looks like simple fireworks from down here, she thinks to herself, if you're close enough. Mostly it just looks like shooting stars blinking out of existence. There's something beautiful and tragic about all of it.
