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aboveallthings[In your hand is a fidget cube, a rounded white cube accented with buttons, dials, and switches in the color of a certain Family on the ship.
Play with any of the fidget cube's six sides and you'll receive a vision. There are two problems with this:
1) some very important information seems to have been blocked out, and
2) you know, with a bone-deep certainty, that this vision isn't yours.
But if this vision isn't yours...then whose is it? Maybe the color of your cube is a clue.]
BACK TO THE EVENT POST
Play with any of the fidget cube's six sides and you'll receive a vision. There are two problems with this:
1) some very important information seems to have been blocked out, and
2) you know, with a bone-deep certainty, that this vision isn't yours.
But if this vision isn't yours...then whose is it? Maybe the color of your cube is a clue.]
BACK TO THE EVENT POST
LEA D. GUNMETAL
Date: 2025-11-14 10:22 pm (UTC)~
The room is plain and shabby, with a single glassless window and layers of dust blown into every corner. The only thing here is a long table surrounded by many mismatched chairs.
The people who pile into the room are mismatched too: a few are small, barely toddling. A few are older children or teenagers. A few are young adults in their own right, and a few are even carrying infants of their own. An old woman with unruly grey hair is shepherding the entire flock.
You feel a little out of place, which is why you put yourself on kitchen duty. The plumbing and running water are new, and they certainly make the job of preparing a stew easier. You hear yelling and laughter from inside the dining room, from outside the kitchen’s small window, from somewhere more distant.
It’s not entirely ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛ outside, yet, but it’s more ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛ than it’s ever been before. The air smells good. The laundry on the line will probably smell amazing rather than dusty.
You’re not paying attention and burn your thumb on the stove. You don’t even care; you’re too happy.
⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛ ducks into the room suddenly, looking frazzled, almost pleads: Do you need any help?
You lift a spatula in warning: no help needed here. Be on your way.
Small hands appear from around the doorway at the same time, grabbing at ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛ clothing, dragging ⬛ back into the dining room.
Just as intended.
You’re finishing up the meal preparations when ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛ finally stomps in, shaking grit from ⬛ clothing and dropping an impossibly heavy toolbag in the corner.
Did you finish it? you ask, looking up from the stove.
‘Course ⬛ says, gruffly. As if to suggest ⬛ wouldn’t be in here if not.
You turn down the stove so you can slip past ⬛ and out into the ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛ to inspect the finished product: a greenhouse, charmingly lopsided, but stable enough to protect the delicate baby plants that will grow inside it. It sits atop a plot of dirt filled in some years ago, after the ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛ was removed. You feel a pang of old sadness, but it’s quickly covered over when you notice a few of the structure’s nails bent at awkward angles.
Cute.
It’s perfect, you say when you step back into the kitchen. You suppose you must have a particular look on your face, because ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛ flusters a little at the praise. Brushes it off. Kicks the dirt from ⬛ boots.
Did ya set the table yet? ⬛ asks instead.
Nope, you reply, cheerfully.
⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛ grumbles about needing to do everything around here as ⬛ starts pulling out bowls and utensils, taking care to grab each kid’s favorite one -- even the kids who aren’t really kids anymore.
Could starting showin’ the kids how to make the seeds grow, ⬛ says as ⬛ stacks plates.
Tomorrow? you suggest, turning off the stove.
Tomorrow ⬛ agrees, and you both grin as you carry the meal into the rowdy dining room.