Universe D
Orbiting Meadows Floating Cemetery
November 3004
The funeral is a kind of hell.
Leela stands stiff-backed by the side of the grave. She can hardly remember the service. The pastor . . . preacher . . . whatever . . . had droned on and on about life immortal and the resurrection of the spirit and flesh, while the congregation sat awkwardly in front of him and tried to remember if Fry even believed in any of that.
It's Leela's fault. She organized the funeral. The trouble is, Fry wasn't religious. At least, not as far as she knows. The result was a service that played it safe, First Amalgamated style. First Amalgamated is a faith that didn't even exist in Fry's time. It's every major religion melded into one clumsy whole. An off-brand, bargain basement version of spiritual succor. Some part of her can't help but feel Fry deserves better, but she couldn't pin down the faith that would fit him. She failed him in so many ways. It's not so surprising she failed at this too.
Bender might know what their friend believed in, but she hasn't seen Bender since the night Fry died. He's a robot. They're not good at processing death.
Leela can't say she's much better at it.
She stares at the floral arrangement, willing herself to feel something. They're daffodils. All day long they've been something to focus on, a splash of vivid yellow to draw her eye. First Amalgamated funeral services are traditionally open-casket, and Leela couldn't bring herself look at it. Couldn't look at him, lying there so unnaturally still and pale, irrefutably in the wrong place. Hermes and Zoidberg had murmured what a good job the undertakers had done, while Leela wondered if they'd lost their minds. She was secretly relieved when the lid slammed down and cut off her view of the blank, wax-doll face that was such a poor echo of Fry's.
She doesn't want to think about it, even now.
It's easier to focus on the flowers.
Daffodils. Fry used to give them to her.
Why daffodils? It's a question she always intended to ask, at some nebulous point in the future. Fry would grow up a little and she'd be a little braver, and they'd drift together, at that mythical point when the timing was right. And one day she'd laugh, and ask why he'd never stopped giving her daffodils. And he'd . . .
She doesn't know what he would have done. It's a question she'll never ask now, because Fry's casket is sinking into his freshly-dug grave, and for all the preacher's dronings about reincarnation and everlasting life, Leela knows that's not how it works. Fry is gone. There is no meaningful way for him to come back to her.
When the preacher offers her his pot of dirt, Leela considers flinging it back in his face. She doesn't, of course. She takes a handful and drops it onto the lid of the coffin instead, flinching at the heavy finality of the sound.
She shouldn't have buried him. Amy had suggested cremating him and scattering his ashes among the stars. It's a nice idea - one she thinks Fry would have liked - but Leela couldn't bring herself to do it. She couldn't stand the thought of him slipping through her fingers again, caught in the expanding drift of the universe. She couldn't stand the thought that she might look up at the stars in future and only ever see Fry moving further away from her, forever unreachable.
So she buried him instead. Selfishly. She wanted something to cling to but it feels like a mistake now, watching the damp winter earth swallow him up.
There is some droning about ashes and dirt, and then the preacher bursts out a hymn, carrying the song in a surprisingly deep baritone, while the rest of them straggle along mumbling in tune and pretending to know the words.
"Help of the helpless, o abide with me . . ."
Leela doesn't know this one. She doesn't remember choosing it. Did she choose it? Maybe it's the preacher's own addition.
"Change and decay in all around I see
O thou who changest not, abide with me . . ."
Leela shuts her eye, fighting the sudden lump in her throat. She hasn't cried. Not once since it happened. She's not sure it's a function she possesses any more. But this stupid old-timey hymn, pleading for the return of something she can only halfway understand - grace or faith or hope, maybe - it tugs at the muscle in her chest. Come back to me, it seems to beg. Stay with me. Live with me again, be by my side and don't ever leave.
Leela can appreciate the sentiment. She would take any version of Fry if he'd only come back to her. He could haunt her as a ghost and she'd welcome it.
But he won't, of course. That's a primitive superstition, and she knows better. Fry is gone, and the sooner she accepts that and adjusts to her new reality, the better for everyone. She's still a captain. There are people looking to her.
The last of the earth piles up over the grave and it's over at last. The preacher clasps her hands and murmurs a prayer or a blessing in some language she doesn't understand. The rest of the mourners follow suit, lining up to press her hand and tell her how sorry they are.
They're treating her like she's Fry's widow. It occurs to her that she could read into that, but what's the point? Everyone else obviously already has.
She wonders how obvious she must have been.
"You can't keep blaming yourself," Amy implores, squeezing her tight. "It's not your fault."
Leela nods stiffly.
Amy doesn't know what she's talking about. It's absolutely her fault. If she'd moved faster, paid more attention, reacted with more authority instead of uselessly watching him bleed out in front of her . . .
She was a miserable failure, as a captain and a friend. It's a sick joke that she's standing here at all.
Randy is wailing.
"He was such a beautiful man! He had the purest soul!"
Leela nods again. A little less stiffly this time.
Randy clutches at her, sobbing onto her shoulder, and Leela lets him. Randy has always been a little over the top. She's not even sure how well he knew Fry.
Cubert and Dwight are next, the two of them sharing one spot. Cubert scuffs his shoe, staring at the ground, and Dwight mumbles "We're really sorry or whatever." It's the most eloquence she could expect from a thirteen year old boy. She squeezes them both on the shoulder and manages a stilted "Thank you."
The last mourner is Michelle. Leela's not even sure why she invited her. But she was Fry's longest-running girlfriend and a remnant of his own time. It felt wrong to leave her out of the loop.
It's been over a year since they last met.
Michelle still has that girl-next-door prettiness but she's grown into it, in a Jennifer Aniston kind of way. She looks a little like Jennifer Aniston too, Leela thinks - if Jennifer Aniston was whiny and self-centered and almost totally devoid of warmth. And still had her original nose.
There is a black car with tinted windows waiting for her on the other side of the cemetery. As Leela watches the horn blares impatiently and Michelle flips off the driver.
"Pauly," she says, by way of explanation. "He's such an ass. We're getting divorced."
Hermes frowns at her.
"Aren't you pregnant?"
She is. Leela hadn't noticed until now, but there is a soft swell to Michelle's stomach, under her open coat.
Michelle just shrugs.
"Um . . . congratulations?" Amy offers.
"Commiserations," Hermes says.
Leela doesn't say anything. She's not sure what the appropriate thing is to say, and anyway, Michelle's private life is none of her business.
Michelle's only response is to light a cigarette and ignore them all.
"They're no-nicotine," she says, at the look on Leela's face. "And no tar. This thing is basically a giant placebo. I'm trying to quit."
"That's probably a good idea," Hermes observes.
Michelle shrugs, and takes another long, nervy pull on the cigarette. Like a lot of smokers, she seems to be using it as a self-soothing mechanism for anxiety. Leela has never smoked herself, but she can see the appeal, for someone with that kind of disposition. It's a way to regulate your breathing in awkward social situations, without seeming like a total nut job.
Still, smoking is considered kind of gross and low class, these days. It's strange to see someone as polished as Michelle with the habit. And the celebrity detox junkies in L.A famously detest it. That can't have been fun for her, living there.
Michelle seems to read her mind. Or maybe she's used to being judged about it.
"I still can't get used to your time," she says. "No-one smokes anymore. In New York. You don't know how weird that is. You people are aliens." She winces, and tacks on a quick "No offense."
Some taken, Leela thinks, but she doesn't bother to say it.
Michelle obviously didn't mean it like that. It's just a figure of speech, and it's not as if Leela has the right to get touchy about it anyway. She's not an alien anymore. She never truly was.
"I was surprised you came," she says instead. It's true.
Michelle stares down at the grave.
"Yeah," she says. "Me too. But you invited me and . . . I don't know, I guess I thought I owed it to him. I mean, men are pigs and Fry was a moron, but we had some good times together."
"When?"
Leela doesn't meant to say it. She didn't mean for it to come out sounding so snide.
But to her surprise Michelle doesn't seem offended.
She just shrugs, tapping off her cigarette ash on the edge of the headstone.
"Back when we were young and dumb," she says. "When he thought he was in love with me and I didn't want more out of life." She meets Leela's eye. "Times change. People grow up. When I came to the future it all fell apart. You can't build a relationship on big dumb gestures, you know? Fry never got that. We couldn't even talk to each other, so obviously it crashed and burned. But I miss him sometimes. He could be sweet."
Some of the ash has blown back onto the headstone. Leela strokes it away. Michelle is in mourning too, she reminds herself. It would be inappropriate to bitch slap her for not respecting Fry's grave.
Michelle watches the gentle brush of her fingers. She looks like there's more she wants to say, but she doesn't know how to say it.
Her hand drifts to her stomach, and then away again.
"The thing with Fry was . . . the thing with him . . ." She shakes her head. "He had no ambition. And he never stuck at anything," she says at last. "You and the robot and that lousy delivery boy job were the most effort he ever put into anything. I know I treated him badly, but I just lost patience waiting for him to grow up. I got pushy. Even when we broke up in L.A, I didn't think it would be the last time. I was just hoping it'd scare him. I kept thinking he'd show up on Pauly's doorstep and say 'baby, I love you, please take me back'. But he never did. I guess he figured out what we had wasn't love."
Leela shuts her eye. She doesn't have the energy for this. She can't even work out what Michelle is trying to say.
Michelle seems to realize that, and tries again.
"The thing is, he was right. It wasn't love. I just used him like a safety blanket, when it felt like my life was crashing in on top of me. And he used me the same way, when he was lonely." She hesitates, watching Leela a little too closely. "Maybe you know what I mean."
Leela just stares at her.
"No," she says at last. "Fry and I . . . it never happened."
"Never?"
Leela colors.
"No. We never . . . we never really got off the ground."
This seems to throw Michelle for a loop somehow. She grinds out her cigarette then fiddles with the packet, as if thinking of lighting another one.
"But - you know he was - he was crazy about you," she blurts out. "Right?"
A wave of dizziness crashes over her, and Leela grabs the headstone for support.
Michelle looks mortified.
"I'm sorry," she says hurriedly. "I thought you knew. He was crazy over you. The last time I met him, he was -"
She stops.
Leela finds her voice at last.
"He was what?"
"It's nothing. It doesn't matter."
"He was what?"
Michelle bites her lip, and Leela has the sudden impression she is weighing her words.
"Mooning over you," she says at last. "I guess. I don't know. He was drunk. He wasn't making a whole lot of sense. And my marriage was in the toilet, so it's not like I wanted to listen to him." She takes out another cigarette, then puts it back with obvious effort. "But I'd never seen him like that," she admits. "He kept talking about stars and . . . I don't know. Love. It was deep, for him."
She crams the cigarettes into her pocket and starts smoothing out the fabric of her coat, so she won't reach for them again.
"It was a while ago. He was talking like you were married. I figured something must have happened with you guys."
Married. Leela forces her brain to work.
Michelle must mean the time skips. But that doesn't make any sense. Fry wasn't upset over that. A little dejected, maybe . . . maybe a little quieter than normal, for a week or two . . .
But not upset enough to spill his guts to Michelle in some bar, months later. Not heartbroken. She would have noticed that.
Unless he hid it from her.
It's a disquieting thought. Fry never hid a feeling from her in his life, as far as Leela knows. It's disconcerting, to think he might have had secrets. That he might have felt things for her and chosen never to tell her.
Suddenly she wishes Bender was here. He'd tell her the truth, whatever it was.
But Bender is Lord knows where, and it's not Leela's place to drag him back. He's dealing with Fry's death in his own way.
Michelle is still watching her.
The horn blares again, and she scowls.
"I said, GIVE ME A MINUTE!"
She turns back to Leela, digs into her purse and comes up holding a square of cardboard. She presses it into Leela's unresisting hand.
"I'm sorry I thought you were such a freak when we first met," she says urgently, as the car revs behind her. "I had a hard time adjusting to the future. A giant eyeball, it's a lot to swallow when you're still trying to get your head around laser pop-tarts and flying scooters. But . . . if you ever start really hating life and you want to go for coffee or something . . . I wouldn't hate that. My marriage is over and I'm a thousand years from home, and I think you just buried the last person who truly cared about me."
Her gaze flicks to the gravestone.
"I'm not always a nice person," she admits. "I can be a bitch. I know that. But . . . I could really use a friend right now."
Leela wants to tell her thanks but no thanks. She wants to throw her stupid card - Michelle Shore, Talent Acquisition and PA - in the trash.
But she can't. Michelle might be awful but Fry cared for her once. He wouldn't turn his back on her if he was here now - and it's Leela's own fault he isn't. She owes it to him to do what he would do.
Friendship is pushing it. But -
"I used to be a cryogenics counselor," she says carefully. "It sounds like you're still having some issues adjusting to life in the future. Maybe I could offer you some advice. Casually. On an ongoing basis. You wouldn't have to pay."
Michelle smiles.
"I'd like that."
Leela watches her go, and wonders what the hell she's supposed to do now. The sun is going down, and the funeral is winding to a close. But the funeral was all she had. It's the last piece of this that had any structure. Now it's over, she doesn't know how to navigate what comes next.
Fix Michelle's life, she supposes. For Fry's sake.
It's funny. Her blaster is sitting on her bedside locker at home. Lately she's been picturing it at intervals during the day. The image of it will come into her mind and just . . . sit there, as if waiting for something. When she gets home at night she finds herself picking it up. Just to look at it. Up to now, she always put it down again.
Tonight, for the first time, she's not sure she would have.
If Fry's ex-girlfriend hadn't shown up at his funeral, she would have no reason to get up in the morning.
Leela frowns. Her fingers brush the gravestone again.
"Fry?"
Did you send her to me? she wants to ask. Is this your way of saving me?
Of course he didn't. That's not possible.
A cold breeze picks up, and shakes a daffodil loose from the arrangement. It drops into the palm of her hand and Leela startles.
She glances over her shoulder. There's no-one there.
She's furtive about it anyway, when she tucks the flower into her pocket. The crew think she's mentally unstable as it is. The last thing she needs is for them to get the wrong idea.
Fry isn't sending her messages from beyond the grave. Only a crazy person would think that.
Obviously.
She takes two steps away from the grave.
It was the wind.
Obviously.
Just the wind.
In this artificially-still, climate-controlled dome.
Leela shivers.
It was just a breeze, she tells herself. Blowback from Pauly's car taking off. If she lets herself imagine anything else, she really will have lost her mind.
She pulls herself together, stops talking to the imagined ghost of Fry, and walks away from the grave without looking back.