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Chapter Text

It had been a few months since the election, and January was settling into a routine at Songshu. He was grateful for how his life had unfolded. He was out of prison, his relationship with River had become something steady and real, he loved caring for Yuan, he’d even forged real friendships with the staff—and had held entire conversations with Sasha that didn’t involve a gun. For the first time in forever, he felt like all his needs were met.

Even so, a quiet unease had taken root. Life-threatening chaos might no longer be a daily expectation, but anxiety still tugged at him like a deep current. He wasn’t concerned about being sent to prison or deported anymore, and he wasn’t hypervigilant about being shot or attacked again (although he did worry about River’s safety when they were out and about, but that was different). What lingered was a stubborn certainty that all this would collapse eventually. That something could go wrong, and he’d be left alone again, scraping by in an inhospitable world. He tried reasoning himself out of it, but that snarling inner voice was resolute.

The dreams had begun a few weeks ago. At first just the one, then a pattern: the floodwaters of London, the Opera House, the endless rain. Each night, he woke breathless and panicky, silently clinging to a sleeping River like a lifeline. He never mentioned it. They were too busy. He didn’t want to add another worry to their list.

But the nights went on, and the knot inside him only tightened.

He didn’t want to become the kind of person who swallowed everything until it curdled into anger. He’d seen what that did. His father’s violent outbursts, his mother’s retreats. He couldn’t bear the thought of repeating that pattern. If he was nothing else, he wanted to be a good, emotionally available partner and parent to his little family. It was what they deserved.

So, with help from—of all people—Dr. Okonkwo, he found a therapist. River knew, vaguely; they thought he was sorting out ‘residual stress,’ which was true, technically. He just hadn’t mentioned the nightly floods and the bit where he woke up shaking. He felt like this was a problem he should try to fix on his own. And he promised himself, quietly but sincerely, that he would put in the work.

His therapist’s office was in Dengta, high up in a glass tower overlooking a crowded street. It was unassuming in a way that felt anonymous and safe. No journalists would be waiting to snap a photo of Consul-Consort Stirling sneaking off to see a shrink.

Dr. Halloran was a slight, naturalized woman originally from Chicago. He’d chosen her precisely because she was from Earth, someone who might understand what it was like to leave a planet behind. This was his fourth visit.

As always, they sat opposite each other in soft chairs, a few feet apart. She held a tablet in her lap, stylus poised for note-taking. “You said last week,” she began, “that you’re sleeping, but still dreaming of London.”

He nodded. “Yes. The flood. The Opera House, rowing through the city looking for help. There’s so much water, and I know I won’t escape it.”

“What emotions do you feel in the dream?”

“Panic. Fear. Despair. Helplessness.” His throat tightened. “I know my world’s ending.”

Dr. Halloran tilted their head slightly. “And what happens when you wake?”

“Panic. Like I can’t breathe. Then I force myself to pull it together before– before I wake up my spouse. Sometimes I go down to the kitchen and make tea.” He gives her a faint smile. “Which I realize is the most British possible response to impending doom.”

That earned the brief, professional half-smile he’d hoped for. Permission to be wry about unbearable things.

After a pause, she said, “I’ve been thinking about something we could try, if you’re up for it. It… can be intense, so don’t feel that you need to say yes. We can always revisit this in the future if you’re not ready, but it’s shown some promise for people who struggle to process trauma through talk alone.”

“Okay… I’m interested. What is it?”

“It’s a form of controlled immersion. You’ve been very analytical in talking about what happened in our previous sessions, but analysis isn’t the same as processing. You’ve seen halo tests, rights? This technique uses a halo device to extract memory data and generate a virtual reality reconstruction. In your case, the London flood—kind of like an immersive film of your own life, with your younger self as the main character. You’d experience it as a bystander rather than a participant.”

He stared at the carpet. “You mean I’d… relive it?”

“Not exactly. You’d witness it unfolding, aware that it isn’t happening to you now. It’s a technique for re-contextualizing the event… seeing it safely, now that you have some distance from it. Cognitively and emotionally, but also geographically, in this case. What do you think?”

He gave a short, incredulous laugh. “That sounds like science fiction.” But the idea of seeing the Opera House again pulled at him. It made his heart hurt. He took a breath. “How does the memory extraction work?”

“During the extraction session, you’ll wear a halo. I’ll guide you through prompts on a tablet to focus on the right timeframe, and the device records the sensory data associated with it. The system then builds the VR environment over the next 48 hours or so. Once it’s ready, I’ll receive a preview, which we can watch together. Think of it as a short trailer of the event. If you’re comfortable after that, I’ll send you the full file to explore privately, on your own time.”

“And it won’t pick up… other memories?” He was acutely aware that he was holding onto state secrets that kept his family safe.

“No. You’ll sign consent paperwork that limits the capture to the parameters you select. Nothing else.”

He nodded slowly. The idea felt terrifying and curiously logical. If he couldn’t stop having the dreams, maybe the solution was to walk through his nightmare on his own terms.

“Okay. Alright. Let’s try it.” 

On the train back to Songshu, he leaned his forehead against the window. Tharsis’ city lights reflected faintly over the swirling dust as he ascended the valley wall. For the first time since London, he felt the smallest shred of control settle onto him.

The following week, Dengta lay beneath a slow-moving dust veil. Taking the train in, January watched the city blur into muted reds and golds. The soft edges made the world feel far away. He tried not to read too much symbolism in it.

Dr. Halloran’s office smelled faintly of cleaning solution and lemon tea. The halo device sat on the table between them, a smooth ring of matte silver pulsing purple light. He knew from experience that it was harmless. It still made his stomach twist.

“Nothing to worry about,” she said softly, setting up the interface on her table. “It just listens.”

He sat down in his usual chair and took off his glasses. She placed the sensor on his forehead, and a second on his wrist to track his vitals.

“All right,” she said. “Let’s begin with something simple. I’ll prompt you to call up the first memory of that period. How about your commute from your flat to the Opera House? Just observe it. Don’t force details. Let it surface on its own.”

He nodded. His palms had already begun to sweat.

“Tell me what you see.”

He closed his eyes. “The water taxi stopping outside my bedroom window. I remember climbing through the window and sitting on the top platform. Riding to work. Not a care in the world.”

“Good. What’s the weather like?”

“Um. Typical London weather. Overcast, gray. Might rain later.”

“I see. Tell me about arriving to work.”

“The water taxi pulled up to the stairs of the Opera House. The water had covered most of the stairs but the door wasn’t underwater. Not at that point anyway. So I climbed out onto a dry stair and went inside. Most of the Company was already there, they’d spent the morning rehearsing scenes that I wasn’t in, so I didn’t have to come in until later. I… walked up to the stage through the rows of seats so I could watch the rehearsal. Everything is red velvet and polished wood. It smelled like dust and varnish. I watched for a few minutes, then said my hellos when they finished the scene. I think I headed back to my dressing room then.”

“Ok, very good. And when did it start to rain?” she said.

“Ah, um. I remember hearing it on the roof just before going on stage to rehearse my first scene. It was loud, but I was used to the sound at that point. It wasn’t anything to worry about.”

“And when did it become something to worry about?”

He swallowed. “I remember the orchestra conductor coming in and saying that the foyer was flooded. That hadn’t happened before. The water had gotten into the electrical wiring and we lost power. Honestly I still wasn’t too worried at this point… more irritated because it meant I’d have to spend the night there. I wanted to go home and shower, sleep in my own bed. And my contact lenses were already dry and hurting. I didn’t bring glasses so I couldn’t take them out. I was just annoyed. I didn’t understand yet that this was the beginning of the end.”

“And then what?”

“I tried to sleep but woke up a few hours later. I went to the window and saw how serious it really was. The water was up to the sill. People were on rooftops, in boats. I… realized that this was different than the flash floods before.”

Dr. Halloran’s stylus scratched quietly against her tablet. “Stay there for a few minutes longer. Let it fill in around you.”

He did. He heard water slapping the House’s stone walls, mixed with soft sleepy murmurs behind him. He heard the rain hitting the water, hitting the tents people had pitched on the rooftop across from him. He heard muffled weather sirens going off across the city and garbled emergency announcements coming from phones and radios of people drifting by in rowboats and canoes. He felt the chill of wind over water. His breath hitched. 

“All right,” she said gently. “Now let’s move forward.”

They worked through his trip out into the flood, looking for supplies with his Conductor. Coming back to a group of 20 people with barely enough food to feed five of them. The rationing, the starving, the helplessness. Fourteen days of survival, giving up, and persisting.

And then rescue on the fifteenth. Marshmallows. Agreeing to seek refuge in Tharsis. The Crossing.

By the time he finished, his throat ached. He opened his eyes to find Dr. Halloran watching him carefully. “The halo has the range it needs now. The VR environment will take about two days to render, and then we’ll look at the preview together.”

He nodded faintly, reaching up to touch his forehead after she removed the halo.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

“Strange,” he said. “I haven’t told that story before, at least not all in one go with all the details. I feel a bit disoriented.”

“That’s normal.” She set the halo aside and offered him a glass of water. “You did well, January. Go easy on yourself tonight. Rest, eat something comforting. The body can’t always tell the difference between real stress and remembered stress.”

He smiled weakly. “Lovely. I’ll do my best.”

When he left, the dust had dissipated. On the ride back to Songshu, he messaged Mx Ren. “Any chance the kitchen could make something ‘comforting’ tonight? Doctor’s orders.”

Ren replied almost immediately. “Define comforting. I remember those culture segments you filmed about traditional British food. Are you hoping for something bean-based and absolutely revolting? Should I tell the chef to burn it before sending it out?”

“Ha ha,” he wrote. “Cake, Ren. Something sweet and chocolatey.”

“Ah, medicinal chocolate. The best kind.”

A few days later, he was back in Dr. Halloran’s office to view his ‘trailer.’

The preview was short, only about a minute and a half. Projected above her tablet, it played like a ghost’s memory. He saw his commute through Covent Gardens, the little water taxi nudging up to the Opera House. His throat tightened at the sight. Then came the jump cuts: the lobby half submerged, his own blurred reflection in the rising water, the rowboat, the days of hunger, the helicopter’s winch descending through the rain. He had to look away or he was going to cry. 

Dr. Halloran’s voice brought him back. “I’ll send you the full file now. You control when and where you engage with this. It’s safe, and you can stop it any time. Let’s meet again in a week or two and see if you’ve made any progress. No pressure.”

He nodded, blinking too often. “Okay,” he said. “Thank you.”

He thought about the VR immersion for three days.

He thought about it on the train home from Halloran’s office, listening to the shushing and rhythmic beats of the rails to drown out the rush of phantom water.

He thought about it in the mornings, when River was gone by 7am and the house hadn’t yet launched into its daily explosion of meetings, meetings, meetings.

He thought about it in the evenings, during lulls in dinner conversation, and later, in the dark, listening to River’s breathing settle into sleep.

He still hadn’t told them about the dreams, or the VR file. River would be gentle and concerned and would treat him as though he was precious. It would be too much. He couldn’t hold himself together under that kind of tenderness.

He was scared, but he wouldn’t make this anyone else’s problem.

On the fourth morning, he opened the House Gale calendar and blocked two hours in the VR room for the following afternoon:
VR Chamber 01 — 14:00–16:00 — January

The next morning, January was up early for a photoshoot featuring Fenhua’s upcoming line. River blinked awake an hour later to an empty bed and pulled up the day’s schedule. The morning was packed with briefings about the convoy from Earth, but the afternoon was a mess of red lines. Meetings with three senators: cancelled. A consular visit from the Eurasian delegation: postponed.

A free afternoon and evening was as rare as rain on Mars.

They checked January’s schedule next, hopeful. No such luck: fittings for the upcoming gala, a culture segment to film, a call with the Tharsis Ballet Company. And–   

VR Chamber 01 — 14:00–16:00 — January (Encrypted File: External Source).

They could see that he’d created the entry himself. No other attendees. He almost never used the VR chambers since he didn't have haptics, and apparently he was bringing his own file? Hm. It could’ve been nothing. But they were themself… and they had never once let a mystery go uninvestigated.

January let the door seal behind him and stood still with his back to it. The VR chamber was all white walls and an open floor plan. The adjoining prep room held adaptive furniture that could be brought in for longer sessions. His nerves were begging him to hold off just a few more minutes, so he made a drawn-out process of dragging a big, padded platform seat to the middle of the VR floor, taking his time positioning it as if it mattered where he sat.

Finally, he linked his glasses to the system and opened the file. The menu glowed, waiting. He took a deep breath and selected proceed.

The first frame felt like a fist to the chest. He was in his old flat in Hackney, watching his younger self climb through the window into a water taxi. And then there were the front steps of the Royal Opera House, its gilded foyer, velvet seats. The place that had been both work and refuge.

He was hovering on the balcony inside, looking down at his younger self rehearsing a complicated scene with Terry. His wrists twinged in sympathy, but past-Jan was making it look effortless. He really had been good at his craft.

The simulation slipped forward: the laughter, the birthday cake, watching others rehearse into the evening. Then, inevitably, the sound of rain. It made his pulse quicken and chest constrict. And then the orchestra conductor was speaking in urgent tones, telling everyone that the foyer was flooded under feet of water already, and the rain was still coming.

He didn’t hear the door open behind him.

River entered quietly, soft-footed as always, and closed the door behind them. Their implants connected to the system automatically. User: Aubrey Gale — Haptic implants detected. Join active session? They selected Yes.

Chapter Text

River entered quietly, soft-footed as always, and closed the door behind them. Their implants connected to the system automatically. User: Aubrey Gale — Haptic implants detected. Join active session? They selected Yes.

The white chamber vanished. They stood in cold darkness, rain roaring in their ears. Ahead, January’s silhouette leaned over a balcony rail. “What is this?” River asked, voice nearly lost under the sound of heavy rain on the glass domed roof.

January let out a sharp, startled noise and swung around. “River?”

“Hi,” they were spinning in a slow circle, trying to figure out where they’d been transported. “I unexpectedly have the afternoon free. I wanted to see what you were doing. …What are you doing?”

“It’s–” he hesitated for just a second. “Therapy homework.”

They snapped back to look at him. “Oh. I shouldn’t have come in without asking. I’ll go—”

“No, it’s fine,” he said quickly, trying to sound nonchalant. But here he was, alone in the dark, trying not to visibly shake. He knew from the way River was lingering now that they’d picked up on all of it.

To River, the chest-rattling thrum of torrential rainfall felt ominous. “Is this London?”

“Yeah. The Royal Opera House. My therapist is trying to help me process the flood and everything. Having to leave and move here. I’ve uh–” he was having trouble making eye contact, but there was nowhere to hide now. Out with it. “I’ve been having nightmares. She built this from my memories. I’m supposed to watch and… I don’t know. It’s supposed to help.”

River nodded slowly. They hadn’t known he was struggling that deeply. They’d known about the therapy, but not what it was for. They wished he’d let them in, but he often thought his feelings weren’t worthy of their time or attention. At least they knew now. “And has it? Helped?”

“Well, I’ve only just started. The me down there doesn’t even know what’s coming yet.”

River studied him. The rigid line of his shoulders, hands clenching the bottom of his sweater. He looked so small and fragile. They wanted to bring him back to bed and wrap him in soft, warm blankets. “Did your therapist say you had to watch this alone?” they asked gently.

He shook his head, unable to speak around the lump in his throat. He hadn’t realized there was any other option than doing this alone.

River stepped beside him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. Together, they looked down. Below, twenty-five people were spreading blankets across the stage, the orchestra pit a black lagoon beneath it. The old glass roof creaked beneath the weight of the water above.  

“It’s hauntingly beautiful,” River whispered. “And look at you, so young.” They stopped themself. They wanted to say this was amazing, surreal, incredible to be able to see a part of his life they’d never otherwise have access to. But they also knew what was coming, that they were watching the lead-up to something deeply painful. They held him tightly against their side.

The two of them stood quietly as time folded in on itself. The storm outside swelled. Past-January stirred, walking barefoot between sleeping forms toward a window. Suddenly the world blurred, edges hazy. “What happened to the feed?” River asked. “Why is it fuzzy? Should I restart the machine?”

“Oh. No. This is part of it. I had to throw out my contact lenses that night. Didn’t have spares. This is just how the world looked to me, until you gave me these glasses.” River frowned down at him. The thought of enduring catastrophe half-blind twisted something sharp inside them. January just shrugged and turned back to watch.

The simulation zoomed in, and two of them floated down to stand just behind past-Jan as he looked out the window. He was seeing the extent of the disastrous flooding for the first time. Outside, the canal had risen to just inches below the window sill. They all watched as the conductor used a curtain rod to fish in an abandoned rowboat. Then they climbed through the window behind young January, settling into the boat behind him.

In the VR chamber, they sat down side-by-side on the platform seat as the simulation brought them out into the drowned city. The rain pelted down. The water beneath them gleamed silver with reflected light. The boat creaked.

River leaned over the side to look down into the floodwater. They’d never been in a boat before. The sensation of unsteady balance, the pull of the oars, the wet chill in the air—they felt it all through their haptics, alongside past-January’s fear and exhaustion, and the sharpness of adrenaline.

A motorboat sped across the water in front of them. The wake caused their rowboat to momentarily rock hard against the waves. The VR rendering was so immersive that January’s body tensed in reflex, and River threw out their hands to steady themself.

Just a foot away, past-January was rowing. The oars dipped in and out of the water in a hypnotic rhythm. As past-Jan pulled his sweater sleeves down over his palms to protect the raw skin from the wood, January saw River flexing their hands over their lap.

“Oh god, you can feel that?”

He hadn’t thought about how this must all feel through haptic implants. They nodded, eyes still fixed on the image ahead. “It stings. How long were you doing this?”

“Hours,” he said softly. He could see a faint smear of red blooming down both oars now. “Hey, you don’t need to- Can you turn the sensory input off?”

River shook their head. “No,” after a beat, they tore their attention away to look him in the eyes. “I want to know what it was like for you. I want to know everything about you, and this is more than you’d ever be willing to say. Thank you for letting me see.”  

He watched them for a moment, feeling a low, aching warmth smoothing over his nerves. I love you. He just nodded, and they both turned their attention back to the video.

The simulation carried them forward. The flooded city stretched out around them, with rooftops and streetlights occasionally jutting up just above the waves. The hologram beacon of St. Paul’s shimmered faintly in the sky, its pulsing light distorted by the rain. The conductor pointed at it, and past-January rowed and rowed.

The closer they got, the clearer the beacon became, a faint blue projection above the dome. SAFE HARBOUR – ST. PAUL’S. And then the enormous cathedral loomed ahead, half submerged. Dozens of small boats and makeshift rafts converged on it, some colliding with one another in the narrow entry. The people in the other boats were blurry and faceless, either because of January’s near-sightedness or just the absence of any real memory of them, he didn’t know.

Inside, the echo was loud and disorienting. The flooded nave glowed with reflected light from the beams of news reports projected onto the walls. Voices overlapped. Newscasters described evacuation routes, casualty numbers, government officials “relocating temporarily” to Manchester. The sound warped against the marble, rendering it almost incoherent. Past-January maneuvered them into a spot near a statue. He and the conductor sat huddled together, both of them shedding silent tears.

In the VR chamber, River’s hands still ached, but now there was something else, too. A creeping sense of futility. Desperation and hunger. The heavy, hollow exhaustion of realizing there’s nowhere left to go. They reached out for January’s hand without thinking about it, and flinched back when his palm grazed theirs. “Sorry,” he said quickly. They shook their head quickly, “no, I forgot,” and then they were climbing up further onto the platform seat, shifting back and pulling January gently with them until he was resting between their legs, his back pressed against their chest. Arms around him, they let their hands rest palm-up on his thighs, and pressed a kiss to the side of his head.

“Better,” they murmured. He felt his breathing even out for the first time since he entered the room.

The simulation shifted. The boat drifted away from the cathedral, and the next few scenes ran together. They scavenged for food in one flooded out supermarket after another, and then a half-underwater camping supply store. They saw people fighting over cans of food and flashlights. They watched as two strangers shoved a young girl overboard and stole her boat. River let out a quiet gasp and hid their face in January’s neck. They watched the conductor come back with a truly miserable amount of food, and saw the sense of defeat settling into past-Jan’s shoulders. He rowed them back over a vast expanse of water to the Opera House.

The simulation sped up, as days blurred into one another. The water did not recede. The color of the sky never changed. The ballet company was still stranded. Past-January stood on the roof of the Opera House with the conductor, wet wind tearing at their clothes. They both had cans of red spray paint and were scrawling enormous letters on the slanted tiles. SOS – 25 PEOPLE. The letters bled in the rain.

Against January’s ear, River whispered, “You were asking for help.”

He swallowed, nodding. “We all were.”

“And no one came.”

“Not for two weeks.”

The two of them watched the younger man raise his face toward the gray sky and stand still for minutes, waiting for a rescue that would not come for days and days. The rain fell in endless sheets. In the silence of the VR chamber, there was a heavy sense of grief.

The stage had become a camp of makeshift blankets and empty food tins. Past-January sat cross-legged, dividing the last few biscuits into careful pieces and handing them out. The dull heaviness of hunger pulsed through River’s haptics.

“God,” they whispered against his temple. “How did you stand it?”

“Didn’t have a choice,” he said. “I think we all just… decided dying in front of one another would be impolite. Very British of us, really.”

River let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “None of this broke you, though. Look at you down there. You were trying so hard to just survive. You did the best you possibly could.”

He followed their gaze to his younger self, who was now sketching on the stage floor with the stub of a broken pencil. Dance steps that would never be performed.

Leaning over him a bit, River ran a fingertip along his jaw, turning his head so that he was looking at them.  “You see that, right? That you’ve done everything you could possibly do in this situation?”

A second passed, then two. And then he nodding yes, and he knew it was the truth.

The light shifted again. Fifteen days had passed.

The sound was faint at first. A low mechanical hum that grew into a roar. Past-January lifted his head, eyes and cheeks sunken in, a confused expression on his face. The conductor was already on her feet, pointing to the ceiling.

“It’s a helicopter,” present-January said, voice cracking. He pressed both hands to his eyes, wiping away tears that had been on the verge of escaping for the last hour. “God, I didn’t think it would actually come.”

Everyone was weak, struggling up the stairs to the roof. It was slick with rain and the red paint had faded to pink streaks. River looked up into the simulated sky, using a hand to shield their face from the rain. “That’s what that sound is?”

“Yeah, it came for us on the fifteenth day. I thought I was hallucinating from the hunger.”

They watched as the harness swung down, clipping onto two of the youngest dancers first. The helicopter hovered above and its propellers whipped debris across the roof. After a few more dancers were lifted up, the helicopter rose and flew away, leaving everyone else behind.

“Wait,” River said. “Why aren’t you on it?”

“They took the youngest kids first,” January explained. “Then women, or anyone who looked worse off. I was on the third trip.”

River’s hands clutched his. “You must’ve thought they wouldn’t come back.”

“I did,” he admitted, blowing out a heavy breath. “Everyone did.”

The second trip came and went, the helicopter vanishing again into the gray sky. Past-Jan stood motionless, soaked through his clothes, eyes on the horizon. When the sound returned, faint and growing, he sank to his knees from relief.

In the VR chamber, River’s breath hitched. The relief wasn’t their own, but it came through their haptics all the same. Sharp, overwhelming and holy. Tears streaked their cheeks before they realized they were crying. They clenched January and held him so tight that he started to choke on sobs. He couldn’t hold himself together under that kind of tenderness.

Onscreen, the harness lowered again. Past-January grabbed it, fumbling with numb fingers. His hands slipped once, twice, before finally locking in. He was barely conscious as the rope jerked taut, his body swaying as he rose into the air. The helicopter’s interior glowed around them as past-January slipped in and out of consciousness, wrapped in a foil blanket.

Chapter Text

When the scene settled again, they were on solid ground. It was an airfield crawling with seemingly thousands of people. Orange-jacketed workers moved through the crush, calling orders over the roar of engines. Past-January stood alone, scanning around for familiar faces. There weren’t any. The few others who’d been aboard his helicopter had already been carted off to see a doctor.

An aid worker approached and led him toward a folding table stacked with packets of emergency rations. She handed one to him. He tore it open and blinked.

Marshmallows.

River laughed, but the sound caught in their throat. Their haptics were lighting up with hunger and a strong mix of relief and gratitude. It was almost painful. “Why marshmallows?”

“No idea,” January said. “I didn’t care. It was food. Sugar. It felt like being brought back from the dead.”

On screen, past-Jan sank into a folding chair, clutching the packet like a prize. He offered a marshmallow to the worker, who shook her head with a small smile. This won current-January a squeeze from River.

The worker collected his information and asked questions as if he ought to have planned a new life in between bouts of not dying. Was there someone who would’ve put him on the missing persons registry during the disaster? Was there family to emigrate to? No? There’s no one? No one at all?

In the VR room, January was suddenly embarrassed. River knew he came to Tharsis alone, but having them see that he had no one even back then felt shameful. He felt like a caricature of a refugee: orphaned, empty-handed, and unclaimed. He studied his hands in his lap and hunted for a joke that would take the attention off his pitiful life.

River beat him to it.

“If you’d said yes to any of those questions, I’d have spent the summer furiously drafting a thesis outlining the many reasons why I shouldn’t marry whatever horribly vapid but social-media-famous Great House heir Solly thought would help me shake off my reputation as someone who”—they made air-quotes in front of his face—“‘kills the vibe’  at parties. This sweet, drowned kitten is my hero.”

He huffed a laugh. It worked. His shame had dissipated. Magic, being known like that.

“Would you like to seek asylum in Tharsis?” The aid worker asked on screen.

Past-January blinked. “Where’s that?”

“Mars,” she said. “The Chinese colony? They’re funding this operation. Ships are coming for refugees.”

Against his back, January felt River go still mid-breath.

“Mars?” Past-Jan said, incredulous. “What about… somewhere here?”

The woman didn’t answer. Instead, she paused to let January listen to the conversations happening nearby. People were asking to be sent to Russia, China, Saudi Arabia, America. All of them were being told that refugees would be refused and turned away at every border, fated to drown or starve or die of sickness in a camp in some no man’s land.

“There’s nowhere else, honey,” she told him, wearily. “But we can get you started with the paperwork for Tharsis now.”

“I can just… go? Just like that?”

“Just like that. Tharsis always needs immigrants.” She was perking up now that he might agree. “It’s a big move, but they really want people, and there are no restrictions on refugees working.”

Past-January frowned. “And where would I live? You’re not… putting me in a camp, or–? I’m not going to be enslaved, right?”

She laughed, even though he hadn’t said it with any humor. “Oh no, nothing like that. There’s housing, yes. And you can make a good life there. There are restrictions on what Earthstrong people can do for work, but still, they’re eager to take people from Earth.”

Eyebrows knitting, he said, “Sorry, Earthstrong?”

“The gravity there is only a third of ours, so people born on Mars have very fragile bones. It can be dangerous for you to walk around there at first. Dangerous to them, I mean. There’s been a bit of a… an uproar about it lately, but it’s still better than dying here.” She gave him a reassuring smile.

Current-January realized she was talking about River’s proposed policies, and for a second, his mind caught up on the fact that this day in the airfield created the life he was living now.

Next to his ear, River huffed out an incredulous scoff. “She’s lying to you,” they said. “She’s not telling you the truth about what it’s actually like here. This is propaganda.” They started to lift a hand off his leg to make angry gestures, but quickly put it back down. “They’re making it sound like the land of opportunity. There’s no water, it’s freezing here, and even with our new policies, so many people from Earth are living in poverty and naturalization is still as brutal. This is obscene, I–” They cut themself off before the rant could spiral further. They were seething but it could wait.

January squeezed their hands, trying to exude gratitude and love. He would never believe someone’s views could change so drastically and so genuinely if he hadn’t witnessed it himself. He was proud of them, and surprised to find a little pride in himself over it, too.  

Past-January, looking dazed, finally nodded. “Yes, please. I’d like to go.”

The worker smiled and handed him a clipboard. His hands shook too badly to write. She took it back and filled in the forms herself.

That night and three more, he slept on a tiny cot in a huge tent with 40 other people. He listened to the roar of helicopter rotors by day, snores and muffled weeping by night. On the fourth morning, busses took them out to the launch fields.

The ships were obscenely large. Ocean liners turned vertical. There were gigantic wheels on the side of them and four rocket launchers on the bottom that were each as large as the Royal Opera House. Past-January stared up, feeling smaller than he ever had in his life.

“That was the first time I understood that my normal life was over,” he said to River. “I thought I might die in the flood. I hadn’t thought about what would happen if I lived.”

River pressed their face into the crook of his neck.

Younger January was strapped into a jump seat listening to a voice count down from ten in a language he didn’t understand. The rockets powered up in a gut-stealing jolt and then the force of the entire world was pressing him, and pressing him, and pressing him, and pressing him, and he was going to be sick, and it was pressing him down, his brain picked up the thread of a prayer he’d heard at some point and he offered it to anything listening, but it was pressing him flat.

And then he was floating.

He threw up into his oxygen mask.

River fell back against the platform, making sounds like they were choking on their own tongue. January ripped off his glasses, automatically pausing the feed. “Are you all right? Oh no, I should’ve warned you.”

They were breathing hard, eyes watering, fist pressed to their mouth like they were on the verge of vomiting. Once they could speak, they let out a tight string of Mandarin curses and wrenched themself upright. “Jesus absolute– Tell me it’s not going to feel like that again when the ship lands.”

“Uhhh… not exactly like that. But not not like that. Do you want to stop here?”

They shook their head. “No, let’s see the rest. I’m fine.”

He hesitated, but knew you couldn’t press it when River was fine. “Alright, but no judgment if you want to turn the sensory feed off before we land.”

“We’ll see.”

He put his glasses back on and the feed started again. Past-January was exploring the ship. It was gigantic. The living quarters were in huge wheels that spun fast enough to mimic the gravitational force on Earth. He slept in the bottom bunk in a stack of four, in a room of a hundred stacks. There were thousands and thousands of other passengers and crew members on board.

His daily routine was tightly scheduled. Breakfast in the mess hall, a shower every third day. Mandarin classes, lunch, more Mandarin, enforced exercise to prevent muscle atrophy, dinner, charity-led culture classes, lights out.

The two of them watched him in his first Mandarin class. The tutor wrote tidy characters on a white board and quizzed each student. He mouthed the sounds, stumbled through the tones, and repeated his assigned words until the tutor nodded. At lunch, he traced characters into the condensation on his cup, and wrote them over and over again in a notebook he kept under his pillow. In real-time, River had recovered enough to nuzzle his cheek. He smiled to himself. He knew they’d like this part.

The feed shifted into an arena larger than New Kowloon’s. A representative from HumanityFirst[1] addressed a sea of refugees, explaining what it means to be Earthstrong, Natural, and Naturalized. Past-January was sitting forward, elbows on knees, listening attentively to the man explain that people from Earth were heavier and denser. Their bones were forged under a weight Mars did not have. On Tharsis, a careless bump could snap a Natural person’s ribs, a simple mistake could kill them. The same physics would sap strength from Earthstrong bodies and eat away at the marrow.

“So,” the man said, palms open, “you have two options.” He clicked to the next slide in his deck and began describing the naturalization process. Surgical intervention. Lingering nerve damage, muscle loss, chronic pain. Months or even years in recovery. Freedom to work anywhere at the price of a body that would never move the same again.

Another slide: the resistance cage. A diagram showed the way it pushed back with calibrated force so that Earthstrongers couldn’t move too fast or too hard. Past-January was called up with a handful of others to try a training rig. He stepped into the open cage and it shushed closed around him. He took one slow step, then more, breath shallow with the effort.

River felt the resistance through their haptics. They’d wondered how it felt for years, and now here it was. “It’s like walking into a headwind that doesn’t stop.”

“At first, yeah. And it feels that way after being out of it for a while. But you get used to it,” he said with an easy shrug. “It seemed like a better decision than the alternative. You could be experiencing the naturalization process through your haptics right now.”

On screen, the technician adjusted the resistance on his training cage. Past-January was walking around a little easier now. He looked pleased. He could handle this.

In a small group session, he received his own cage. He also received its key. The teacher showed how to lock and unlock the cages, then spoke in a hushed, serious voice about fear. “Some natural people will avoid you altogether. Some will insist that your cage is locked if you’re in their proximity. If someone asks for the key for their safety, you give it.”

They watched as past-January learned about the oath. The teacher demonstrated it: kneel down on one knee, make eye contact, present the key on an open palm, and in clear Mandarin, promise restraint and care. “If you take the oath, you are saying: your safety matters more than my comfort. You are saying: I will not move without considering you.”

The room became a jumble of voices practicing the words. This is for you. To return only when you feel safe, and it disturbs no unquiet thoughts.

His lips moved around the syllables, careful with the tones, and earnest in a way that makes January, in the present, feel like he’s aged decades. He practiced the oath until the words sounded nonsensical, practiced kneeling until his knees bruised. He arranged the key in his palm three dozen ways until the gesture couldn’t be misread.

He’d only ever taken the oath for River. Performing it correctly for them had been worth the amount of time and attention he’d spent learning it. They were watching now, rapt. “Before you knelt here, I’d only seen it in films. I didn’t think it was real. Not like this.”

“Yeah. I took it seriously,” he said. “I was hoping it would make you feel safer. But I could tell it made you feel awkward instead.”

“No... Knowing you couldn’t be around the next corner, uncaged and ready to give me what I deserved—it helped. I kept you locked in for too long, though. I’m sorry I needed that. But it did help.” Their arms tightened around him, and he exhaled into the relief of being forgiven for something he hadn’t realized he was still carrying.

Legal briefings followed. Volunteers explained the political landscape, the concerns over Earthstrongers, and the pressure to naturalize. They explained that you need to keep your real name off registries. Don’t open bank accounts with your own identity, use an alias, don’t give the government more than it already has. They’ll force you into camps, they’ll maim you.

In the VR room, January drew in a breath and held it. All of this was real. He was told these things, and they were true, at least at the time he’d landed in Tharsis. And a lot of it was directly tied to River. He could feel that they’d gone tense behind him.

“I’m sorry.” It came out of them in a nearly inaudible whisper.

“I know.” He slid his hands over their forearms and drew them snug around his waist until their chest was flush to his back again. “But we know how this story ends, yeah? It works out.”

The simulation sped up, blurring through weeks and then months. River’s haptics fed them the cage’s steady pressure at their collarbones and hips, its pull on every joint as he moved, the motion-sick nausea that never let up, and the dull, aching grief as past-January watched Earth grow smaller in the viewport each day.

Through the daily routine—breakfast, tones, push-ups, verbs, laps, lectures on Tharsis etiquette, lights down—they could both hear past-January practicing the oath under his breath.

[1] I borrowed this charity’s name from this fantastic fic, Next in Line, by sylvansalvia. [back to text]