((The Unity))
"Sam—," you begin, but he cuts you off in that Coe way you know so well; that way that manages to be reckless, loving, and stubborn as a mule, all at the same time.
"We go together," he insists. "There's no way I'm passing this opportunity up, and I know you can't, either."
"We don't know what's on the other side," you mention. "And there's no turning back."
"That's why we've got to do it," he says.
You know he's right.
"I guess it's sort of exciting, isn't it?" you grin, and he chuckles at your understated tone.
"Yeah," he replies. "A little."
You laugh and take his hand, sharing a mirrored smile and knowing the two of you can take on anything the universe can throw at you, even this mysterious Unity.
"Firing up the grav drive, now."
((No 2))
"Sam—," you begin.
"Well, if it ain't the Starborn," he muses against the earthy backdrop of the Lodge bar. The faint rasp, the subtle fragility, the thick masculinity; elements that blend together into one telltale voice. It's the same voice, but not the same voice, yet it is and yet it's not. Now he calls you "Starborn", and the friendly, carefree way he says it makes your heart tear sharp and fast like a page ripped out of a book.
He stands up when he sees you, rising in a nonchalant yet polite way from the chair in which he'd just been lounging. He'd been a little slumped before, not that you'd let him know you noticed. You wonder if the same burdens hang heavy around this Sam's shoulders.
You'd emerged from the Unity alone, finding yourself in the sterile, detached silence of a Starborn vessel and its armor, and looking a lot more like the Emissary than you cared to. Something about it felt repulsive, like the change was too much, too fast. You couldn't get into different clothes quickly enough; you grabbed the first flight suit Vladimir had stashed on the Eye, scrubbing the sterile Starborn off you with an Earthen chaos.
You had no idea where your Starborn Sam had gone, but somehow, on a deep level, you knew he wasn't here with you. Was he somewhere trying to scrub away the unfamiliar Starborn dust, too? How ironic that your search for the new frontier would silently and swiftly steal away everything you loved.
Nevertheless, you'd known it was part of exploration's risk, how in a moment the critical can be lost. And yet, with all that was lost, something else was gained. You can't quite put a finger on what gain that might be. Not yet.
When you first arrived, you had decided to be perfectly honest with everyone at Constellation about who and what you were. You saw no reason to behave otherwise, using the superior knowledge of having already done this once before to cut to the chase, to accelerate Constellation's research into the artifacts, and to save a life.
"It's nice to meet you, Starborn, although from what I hear, you already know me a whole lot better than I know you," Sam says, and you see the guarded filter going up in his eyes, like his own interior armor.
"Maybe," you say.
"I don't think I like that," he says too dismissively.
"There's not much to be done about it now, is there?" you reply, feeling your edges scraping rawer through every moment with this Sam. Not your Sam. You hadn't yet had any time to properly mourn the loss of your husband, if that's what you were supposed to do in this situation, if he were truly gone. There were too many questions, and a distinct absence of closure.
You aren't ready to approach the idea of closure yet, anyway.
"No, I suppose not," he admits and shifts, looking uncomfortable with your presence. It aches like a pounding heartbeat, and you turn away suddenly, feeling a sharp rage flame outward, as if you could reach the Emissary with your fury and scorch him for what he made you do; for what he didn't tell you.
You hear Sam say something as you leave, but you can't listen. You stumble out of the Lodge into the blinding Jemison sunlight and stand, blinking.
This is unbearable, you find yourself thinking, and then a seed of purpose lands in you and sprouts as you gather the artifacts. You make the ancillary. You storm the buried temple. You reenter the Unity.
((No 3))
"Nice to meet you, Sam Coe."
"We're a package deal -- Cora and me," he says, all stubborn and bravado and take-it-or-leave-me. His front says he's not broken or afraid or deeply injured, but you know better.
"Of course," you agree, taking him and his voice and his precocious daughter into your life.
You'd been less than forthcoming, this time. You pretended to be the you from this universe when you strolled into Constellation, you pretended not to know anything about the artifacts. You pretended to be as awestruck as the rest of them at the unfolding mystery, and you did all this pretending because of a deep, gnawing need for Sam in your life, any Sam. You just wanted the dull ache to stop.
The Hunter calls you out on it; he tells you you're deceiving them all, that it's a cruel thing you do, that you're being selfish and using them for your own wants. You tell him he's wrong -- in the moment you believe he's wrong -- but his words linger in your mind like vines weaving through stonework, worming into cracks, and slowly tearing it all apart.
When Sam tells you he loves you under the shadow of Solomon's statue, you hesitate. You reciprocate, because of course, you do. This is why you went through the Unity again, after all, but you don't feel as sincere this time. A creeping guilt scratches at your underbelly, seeded by the Hunter. This isn't your Sam, and he thinks he is. You successfully pulled it off, but beneath it all is a foundational lie. You feel a dark shadow fall over you, one that you never expected.
You realize you despise Lillian. Before the Unity, you liked her well enough. Maybe it was because she's a capable woman, or maybe just out of respect for her being Cora's mother. You can no longer recall why you once liked her, but you know now that you loathe her for putting herself before her daughter time after time and having the gall to believe that's acceptable. You hate her lazy accent. You hate her need for rescue because she can't handle her own job. You hate her audacity, and you hate how she argues with Sam. You hate how she makes promises to Cora and fails to keep them.
You realize you hate her most for not keeping this Sam when she had him. For wounding him. For leaving him and Cora to do a damned useless job.
Just like you.
Every time you wake up next to Sam it gets worse. You feel like an impostor until one day you rise and find it has become unbearable. You know you can't stay with this Sam, not with the rot from the Hunter's poison. You can't bring yourself to hurt him; you become a coward in an instant, and the Unity is your escape.
You pretend until the very last moment that this is a new horizon for you both. He will never know. This Sam won't, anyway.
((((Nos 4-6))))
You detach. You run. You become very good at head shots. You refuse to align yourself with anyone, anything. You are only the Starborn to Constellation, and you notice you are slowly beginning to resemble a wraith, more and more each time you emerge from the shimmering circle. You begin ignoring your own reflection.
Yet, you always take Sam with you, only Sam, on your sterile ship into the black to get the job done, even when you tell yourself you won't, this time. He never questions why. He gets the same thrill from leaping into danger, the same wonder at landing on a new planet, the same enthusiasm for recklessly entering the Unity. Occasionally, he says something you've never heard before and you feel a tremor through the thick miasma with which you've cocooned yourself.
You never let him get close. But you like him there: close, but distant. He doesn't seem to mind, perhaps assuming it's just like a Starborn to be aloof.
You almost never let him see your face, because when you do, you see something subtle register in his eyes – an aspiring attraction that you can't allow to germinate, one that even he wouldn't be aware of unless given to root. You keep your interactions with him as sterile as your Starborn vessel, where nothing can hope to grow, and it never becomes a problem.
Occasionally he says something that pricks at you, and you wonder if you keep him around as a reminder of what pain feels like. Still, he feels like the only thing standing between you and becoming an empty husk; the only buffer left between your humanity and a true soulless Starborn.
