Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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TURNING skyward, Grace's wishing-well eyes became a vessel for the stars. A mere vanilla slice of moon hung overhead, juxtaposed against the chalkboard ubique of space. Grace's father had a telescope; he could see farther than this. Grace had only eyes—dark brown and star-studded, but an unbroken, reflective gaze was all the sprawling Universe asked of her: that ever-encompassing god who existed just to be observed by the many denizens of its embrace. Unlike the ocean—a terrestrial, aggressive force, who fed us our breath as we poisoned its flesh—the Universe was so quiet. Pristine. Grace could not always hear the rolling turquoise tide, but the only thing that could obscure the heavens from her was the Earthly inconvenience of a ceiling; umbrella; or some other trivial distraction. And this was just as well, for she feared looking away—not for what she'd miss if she did (the occasional shooting star was honestly no spectacle to Grace) but rather the ensuing disappointment which the Universe would shower upon her. That which those taller people in her life—strict dance instructors; juliemollyjacobsusan; and Mother—never failed to administer at her slightest error, disobeyal, imperfection. But Grace knew the Universe was pure, and she felt no strain in her smallness this time, as if the sky were a mirror—as if it were herself whom she afforded this copious and unbroken respect (stargazing as self-projection).

     Grace discovered this and looked away. And since that brief and reflexive betrayal, she'd never stopped seeking the sky's forgiveness.

     Hers was a house of ceilings, but her bed was not unlike the trampolines in the Gymnastics Room she went to on Tuesdays. That too was a place that made her feel small, but she recognized its restrictions. When first walking into the Room, it seemed shallow-ceilinged [confined] and trophies from other people lined the walls (mocking her), but upon stepping into the fluorescent maw, Grace discovered a stifling distance between herself and the structure (artificially infinitesimal). She was intimidated by the prevalence of white, and the way it juxtaposed against the gaudily colorful every-shaped cushions which shone the light back in her eyes as a synthetic sheen, but didn't bother the so-many-eyes of the cartoon characters looking down at her, on the fuzzy blue floor, from above. She jumped very high on the trampoline, as if attempting to meet their level. Her favorite part was the bars, when she'd turn upside-down and they'd be underneath her for once. 

     As I was saying, Grace practiced temporal aviation on her bed, but she didn't reach nearly as high, nor were there eyes to impel this incessant propulsion. She even turned herself upside-down, once, on her silky pillows, but got lost in fantasizing about what it would be like to walk on the ceiling. Grace tried this method again at ballet class, when she was bored and the instructor was late. Holding onto the bars which ran the length of the wall, she leaned backward diagonally and then turned her face "up." What she didn't account for was the mirror behind her, and something went terribly wrong when she saw her visage on the opposing side of the room. An out-of-body experience. She lost her balance / fell into the sky.

     Grace Monroe forgot the Universe; ceilings and eyes became her new starscape. And yet her dark irises had retained those celestial sparks; it was in them she sought fleeting comfort—a glance into Infinity in the face of a mirror. She didn't recall the origins of this obsession, that night under Everything: lost in the film grain and VHS noise that corrodes us all as we grow. But what she did know: the mirror was her friend; her reflection, someone who loved Grace for herself, imperfections and all. This took time to realize, however, because for so long, the mirror's face resembled her Mother in certain respects (not the eyes, not the eyes; Grace had her father's telescope-worn eyes). Then a Train came along, and stole Grace away from her own reflection. And in its absence, that part of her closest to the sky took on Grace's likeness: long dark straight hair, cut short by her own hand, turned into locs over time, and the next time she looked in the mirror, her wishing-well eyes overflowed with love long overdue.

     It was for this reason that Grace kept on her person a mirror at all times—a fragment of affirmation to carry always. That she existed / that these eyes loved her. Because in this volatile new world, there were no stars: only crimson clouds, bloodred sky. And those stars she did see on occasion failed to rival the ones which twinkled in her irises, for they were artificial, like all things in this hellscape. All things except the passengers, of course, who hadn't asked for this any more than she had; those whom she sought out to show them the potential of this place: a chance at individuality, at freedom. At power. She found this in the digits of her palm/wrist/arm. Those which climbed higher than she ever could jump on the Gymnastic Room's trampoline. Grace set her sights on symbolic ascent, and this was just as well, for if she ever pondered what lie behind that vermillion projection of a sky, she may discover the harrowing truth: that the Train was in fact underneath an Ocean, a terrestrial, aggressive force.

     Mayhaps not terrestrial (nor an ocean) in the sense you'd presume, for you see, this was a different, distant planet from our own, whose people weren't much unlike us, for they made our mistakes, and set flame to the air (or so One would have you believe...)

     Indeed, the depths of Replicator's Tide, as you shall come to call this place, harbored more than an infinite Train, and a girl named Grace Monroe. Lest you forget that the ocean turns too, and it—like us—is a creature, breathing/grieving/poisoning.

     It pulls us all in, the Train, but what do you reckon it's hiding us from? The Tide of mechanical wrath is a likely contender, but it could just as well be the Stars...

     For this was a planet of ceilings, and mayhaps if the abyssal creatures on the Ocean's floor were to traverse the shallower [DEADLY] waters unscathed, they'd discover the depths of Space are not so different from the place they left behind, and that they are not unlike the stars, for their bioluminescent bodies echo the light of so many Suns.

     But, as there is no fisherman on the moon who may hope to reel us into enlightenment, we ought to rely upon alternate interference: a starlet ambassador, perhaps, could descend into the sea—extinguish into a modest, familiar form—and meet the bioluminescers where they are.

     As surely as this planet turns, Grace Monroe will remember the sky.

Chapter Text

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i. concourse

"MÖBIUS strip; lemniscate... there's all sorts of names for it. But we know one thing for sure: this train is ruled by the sine wave, NOT Infinity." A pair of crystal-clear green eyes narrowed on the congregation of children like a viridescent laser. Obscured partially by a head of jaggedly cut-up blonde hair, a black slate board, vertically set upon an easel betwixt the Mall's twin escalators, bore the forbidden symbol—a figure 8 placed on its side—in vibrant green chalk dust. Stepping back up to the board, Simon lifted his right hand (also, ironically, sporting a couple green eights if you looked close enough) and pressed his palm to the black, and in one clean determinate stroke, eradicated its clear, perfect shape, reducing it to a meaningless blur.

     "Infinity... is a construct. A mathematical theory and nothing more. Everything has a beginning and end; no machine—or person—is perpetual. The False Conductor will have you believe that the Train is immortal—infallible, but the Apex knows the truth." Simon took up the white piece of chalk and drew a vertical line on the board, then placed the stick at the top and brought it down in one unbroken curving stroke, like a letter S stretched thin. "Reality is rhythmic; everything rises and falls. As the Apex, we exist at the crux of this arc. Now, show of hands, how many of you recognize this shape?"

     The concourse of kids before him was suddenly illuminated by the neon green glow of nearly forty eager hands. All emblazoned with numbers, earned through the pillage of denizen homes; the spillage of denizen blood. Simon couldn't help but squint, as the concourse of the Mall, on the other hand, was relatively dim, save for the gaudy sunlight that fluoresced from and haunted the skylights above. Along with the blotches which simmered in his retinas, the children's enthusiasm had burned into his mind even moreso than the glare of their numbers. He was beginning to understand his best friend's endless quest for a constant, captive audience.

     "Just as I thought; now, can anybody tell me where you have seen this particular symbol?"

     Hesitantly, some hands descended, while others wavered in elevation. One remained confidently raised, however: that of a girl with short dark brown hair and a patch over her left eye.

     "Yes, Lucy?"

     "It's on the doors. Of all the cars. It's golden."

     "That's correct!" Simon said, and Lucy's neighboring friends gave her smiles, pats on the shoulder. Simon couldn't understand this part; their attention deterred made him feel almost sick.

     "Eyes on me, please," he curtly instructed. The children did as they were told. There was that rush again: pure, unquestioning obedience. There was power in this, Simon thought; agency. In the intent gaze of his audience, he saw reflected the quavering green of a blonde-haired, abandoned child. Green which crystallized into confidence over time—confidence instilled by the truth of the Train. Confidence he was equipped to pass onto these kids. When I look at you, I see me...

     The mesmeric echoes of green rippled in his eyes still.

     And on the opposing side of the spectrum was red—like the skirt Simon wore; like the hue of his Wave, the Apex's insignia. Red like the sparkling mettle of Simon's best friend; red like the sky under which he had become a man. But was he really a man? After all, he could still not ascertain an absolute perception of himself. He was and remained, by all means, a boy; Simon did not dispute this, no matter how many times his brain insisted otherwise. And yet he had let his hair grow out for a time—not for want of being a girl, but for being mistaken as one.

     Maybe he'd wanted it long so that when the time came he had more to cut off. His friend told him she had cut her hair too, long ago; it was high time Simon did the same! Only when he did it, it felt more like self-destruction, not affirmation. He did it when he was alone and his heart was too fast. He did it because he and she had not seen eye-to-eye on something he had done. He did it because he could wrestle with hair and reshape it into something else; because it was something he could control, when feelings and friendship became, suddenly, abstract concepts to him. (Like sideways 8's drawn in the fog of a car's windowpane: existing briefly, yet haunting the glass as faint and frozen ghosts... when the fog returned to obfuscate the artist's view outside.)

     Besides, Simon liked his hair short nowadays, because paired with the red skirt he frequently wore, it added to his ambiguity. Kept them guessing (kept him guessing too).

     For someone so hellbent on upholding binaries and order, Simon was proud to be a paradox. That was his reasoning behind the red and the green. Some contradictions just complement each other, and Simon sought harmony above all. A golden ratio, if you will.

     "An astute observation as always, Lucy." Simon looked down at her from the escalator step, which he'd since ascended upon; the girl's sole eye had a shadow to it. Militantly engaged; observant. She did not smile at his compliment. This was just as well; Simon didn't paint grins on his dolls anymore.

     "As you have all surely noticed by now, this shape does indeed adorn every car we have entered. From a different angle," (he elaborated, turning the board on its long side) "one may mistake it for Infinity, that disdained principle that I mentioned before. Indeed, if you were to connect the dots in your head, your brain might just mistake this for a chiral lemniscate." He received a couple blank stares from the kids. "Uh, I mean... two half-circles—one arcing downward, and the other up, traveling on the same line. But if you were to erase that common line, and connect the two disparate shapes until they looked like a sideways figure eight, you would have Infinity, correct?" As he spoke, Simon demonstrated this transformation on the board, using green chalk to do so/tracing over the white and erasing the line which had cut through the shape. "Now that we're all on the same page, I presume you understand why this is wrong? I had to make an assumption, then consciously alter the symbol's meaning to accommodate that assumption. As opposed to accepting the fact that this shape is NOT Infinity, but rather... a sine wave!" With a flourish, Simon erased the board with the sleeve of his white hoodie. "OBSERVE!" With yet another flourish, Simon took up the red chalk this time, and drew the same crimson Wave that adorned his own face on the slate. "I should hope that you all recognize this." Eagerly, the children nodded.

     "IT'S THE SQUIGGLE!!!" one cried out in full confidence. Simon's smile faltered as chuckles arose from the audience.

     "Otherwise known as the sine wave," he coldly returned. "The emblem of the Apex? The one on all of your faces, correct?" The children nodded again with zipped lips. "As you likely can tell, it has sort of a rhythm to it; maybe ours are a little uneven, but the one I have drawn on the board is perfectly stable. See how the 'ripples' are equidistant from each other?" Blank stares, again; Simon was on the verge of tearing out the rest of his hair.

     "Just... just watch," he sighed, lifting his hoodie sleeve again as if to erase parts of the shape. "Pattern is replication, and all replicating entities have a blueprint; an origin; a source, understand? The sine wave, in its purest form, is a Replicator—it doesn't just abide by rhythm, it embodies it. The Apex seeks to maintain this order, as the original wielder of the sine wave did. Now, from what shape does this rhythm extend? What is the initial note in synchronicity? BEHOLD!!!" Grandly, he unveiled the board from beneath his sleeve, and the children let out a collective gasp. The shape on the board was not unlike a thin, sideways letter S; the starting point; the first ripple. The Replicator.

     "And voilà!" Simon took up his red chalk again and drove an emboldened stroke through the shape. "A sine wave travels upon an axis, just as the Train travels upon its tracks." He turned the board back on its shorter side, and the shape transformed into the golden symbol of the doors, drawing gasps and murmurs from the kids.

     "That's the meaning of the line and the sine: a symbiotic dance. The axis is the perpetual track that we, the sine wave, interweave our lives throughout; our quest is to live in balance with it. And that's what this symbol does; it too is a consistent presence across the Train; it travels with us, admits and accepts us, along the same set of tracks that has been laid for us, the humans of the Train. But the False Conductor threatens to corrupt it, urging us to get our numbers down, then luring us through green 'doors' with the same symbol we revere. So remember, Apex: honor the rhythm of the red Sine, and do not fall for the False Conductor's illusions." He stood up on the step and bowed. "Class dismissed." The children dispersed without question. Simon was alone. He sank back onto his step in a slump, resting his chin in a chalk-stained palm.

     Their enthusiasm had been nice, but short-lived. Surface level. His sermons had always been so well planned, and it was the only writing of his Grace would read. Ever since he had come up with the idea a few weeks ago, it had felt so exciting to him; he'd even set aside his fantasy novel to ruminate on his next speech. As far as he was concerned, this had been his best yet! So why did he feel so unfulfilled afterward?

     Simon rose to his feet with a dismal weight on his shoulders, took the board under his arm and folded its easel, and dropped the pieces of chalk into his skirt pocket. He proceeded up the escalator, dallied upon the landing, twirled around for a brief, thoughtless rush, and then suddenly stilled just to get his bearings once again. The ceiling skylights exuded dull, meaningless brightness, and the false sky behind them foreshadowed a storm. Simon squinted toward the light, pondering the last time he'd seen the Sun. Felt the Sun. Tasted, smelled something real. This Train was all artifice, and when the Apex did prevail, was that something he wanted to preserve?

ii. art-of-face

"HIDE the stones with flowers, hold the world with velvet gloves. Only pleasing things to look at, don't show anything unloved."

     Grace leaned in closer to the golden mirror—so much so that one may fear for her falling through it. She, however, was a master of balance, and thus she effortlessly maintained statuesque stance.

     Eye-to-eye with her reflection—which, for all she knew, was knowingly staring her down—Grace brought the uncapped lipstick up to her face, somewhere beneath her left eye. It hovered there, painstakingly, for a matter of seconds; her gaze flickering between her own star-speckled stare and the crimson makeup in her hand. Her hand, which began to quiver. In her haste to set down the gloss, its red tip graced her mirror, leaving in its wake a scarlet trail which stemmed from her reflection's eye like a tear track.

     The lipstick clattered upon the golden vanity, and Grace fell back onto her makeshift throne, lightheaded. And for a few hazy moments, her vision was claimed by static/she saw stars. What cut through the fog was the shape of the line on the glass—moreso like an arc from this new point of view—yes, just the ghost of an arc...

     She sensed her trembling hand had a mind of its own as it reached for the lipstick again, drawing it up to her face. The glorious green glow of Grace's prodigious digits overtook her vision, and the mark left on her nose was hardly a sine wave.

     Lipstick, caked in a clump in the center of her face; she couldn't help but chuckle when she caught the sight of herself in the mirror. With her thumb, she wiped the makeup off as best she could, leaving no more than a red smear behind.

     As for the lipstick itself... it was—for lack of a better word—pancaked. Grace's amusement turned to annoyance upon discovering the refined point of the stick reduced to a dull nub. Grimacing, she stood and set the stick on the table, then wiped the red from her hand on the mirror—subconsciously completing the accidental arc. The shape sparked something to life within Grace's mind; mayhaps a fond recollection... of the time she brought crayons into her mother's room.

     Enraptured by the potential induced by this initial stroke of careless creation, Grace reached for one of her vanity's drawers, pulling it open to reveal her makeup collection, and among the palettes and paints, there lay, scattered, an assortment of other lipstick. No red, to Grace's dismay (she made a mental note to search the Mall for more later) but rather orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple. All unopened until now.

     Grace wondered which hue would best replace her Wave's signature red; unfortunately, the orange was nowhere near scarlet or crimson on the spectrum, and all the other colors were far too disparate to fool anyone into thinking they were something else. And Grace couldn't possibly commit the sacrilege of straying from the True Conductor's likeness. No... these simply just wouldn't do. A pity, too; she'd been planning to get out of the Mall Car today.

     She plunged a fist into the drawer, retrieving all five colors in a single hand. They clattered onto the vanity's surface, laying—pristine and intact—beside their smooshed, red, and uncapped sibling. They may have pondered the potential of a similar fate befalling themselves, but before any objections could be made (they were merely mouthless objects after all), Grace popped off the cap of the orange, and drove it into the mirror as one may a blade through an enemy's chest. It traced the shape of the red, albeit just below, and smaller. A new arc/sine wave folding in on itself. Euphoric with inspiration, Grace took up the yellow, a squeal of delight slipping out. This third arc was smaller yet; yet another step to the entire shape! A mere part of a whole! Oh, the joy of invention upon one's own mirror!!!

     Then there was green—the same vibrant viridescent hue as Grace's number—or, I should say, numbers. For they glowed—as randomly arranged as the infinite digits of pi, from her palm to the back of her hand and then winding around, up her arm, stopping shortly at her elbow.

     Briefly, she scorned their stagnancy in growth. The Apex's raids of new cars had been fewer and far between, ever since Simon—

     The green arc leaned sideways slightly, coming dangerously close to intersecting with its neighboring yellow stroke. Grace took the blue and again was entranced. An alien hue, it should seem, to the girl who decked herself in red and orange—the occasional splash of lavender. With the exception of today, of course; there was some blue adorning her now, more than ever before...

     This was a calm, almost contemplative, arc which she left on the mirror.

     And, finally, purple—a color more familiar to her, albeit one she wasn't utterly ready to embrace, despite (unknowingly) embodying its respective values already (paradoxically).

     A moment of hesitance. She asserted this ultimate stroke with a single motion.

     "Grace, Grace, GRAAAAAAAACE!!!!" The addressed party parted with purple; it left a stray mark on the table surface when it fell.

     "Oh! Trinity!—What are you doing here?" Grace gave the cords affixed to the rainbow-streaked mirror a soft tug, and the vanity rose in the air, all away, out of sight. As it lifted, it revealed a tiny girl—mayhaps no more than nine years old—clutching a pair of roller skates by their sparkly pink laces in one hand.

     "I didn't forget the scrunchie this time!!" Trinity beamed with a top row of braces-lined teeth.

     "That's awesome, Trin!! Hmm... we might have to make do with my pocket mirror today. The vanity's out of commission."

     "Really? The whole table?!"

     "Well... it's just the mirror, I guess." In truth, Grace's vanity had three mirrors, but she didn't dare risk exposing her artistic mess. "It's okay, though! You got the brush too?" Trinity nodded exuberantly, setting her skates on the ground and pulling out a sticker-speckled hairbrush, as well as a pink plastic pick, a small spray bottle, and a container of hydrating cream.

     "I call it Roller-Space (TM). It's a purse and roller skates in one!" She leaned in and whispered to Grace, "I haven't worn the skates yet, so I'm getting my money's worth out of 'em before I do."

     "How practical!" Grace chuckled as she took inventory. "Okay, Trin, are you ready for hair salon time?"

     "WOOOOOOOOOOOO! YEAH!! That's like, my second favorite time!!! (My least favorite time is bedtime.)" Trinity perched upon the cushiony arm of Grace's throne, kicking her legs a little as Grace gathered and arranged the supplies accordingly. She took up the spray bottle first, and began to spritz the water onto Trinity's black curly hair.

     "You've gotta hold still, okay, kiddo?" she laughed.

     "Fiiiiiiine."

     Grace smiled. She adored all of the Apex kids' quirks, and Trinity—albeit new to the crew—was starting to grow on her too. Now picking up the moisturizer, she trilled her lips and grasped for a conversation starter.

     "How was Simon's lesson today?"

     "Ugh, do NOT call them that! It makes them sound even boringer than they already are!"

     "Oh boy; that bad, huh?" Grace bit her lip as if in sympathy, when in actuality she was trying to hold back a laugh.

     "Yeah!! It's just like school, except with less stickers. SIMON DOESN'T HAVE STICKERS, GRACE!!!"

     "That's a travesty, to be sure. I'll be sure to forward your complaints to the Simon suggestion box."

     "As if he even HAS one." Trinity trilled her lips in frustration, a stim she picked up from Grace. "Hmm, do you think I'll get my Wave today?"

     "Probably!" Grace replied. Assuming I can find more red lipstick by curfew.

     "YesyesYES!!" the girl squealed, making her small hands into tight, eager fists and shaking them delightedly.

     "I love the enthusiasm, but you've gotta stay still, okay?" Grace said gently, putting the cap on the cream. Setting her sights on the hairbrush and pick, she finished off the morning routine halfway in a daze. Lost in the clouds and the lipstick rainbow overhead...

     "You still got that scrunchie?"

     "Riiiiight here!" Trinity reached over to her right hand and pulled off a big pink silk scrunchie. "I kept it on my glowing hand, so I wouldn't forget!"

     "That's so smart!" congratulated Grace, wrapping the scrunchie around the outside of her fingers, then around Trinity's hair. "Aaaaaand, done! What do you think?" She reached into her dress pocket and retrieved a small mirror, opening it with a click and handing it to Trinity so that she could admire her new Afro puff.

     "EEEEEE, it's PERFECT!! Thank you, Grace!!" She abruptly turned around and launched herself into Grace's unsuspecting arms. Thankfully, Grace caught her in a hug, but was surprised to feel a soft tug on her own hair.

     "What are you..."

     "Aaaaaalmost—THERE! Now you look!!" Trinity handed Grace the mirror, and Grace discovered that a small cluster of her locs had been tied back with a lavender silk scrunchie, not unlike Trinity's own.

     "Oh, Trin, this is—amazing!" Impressive, also, how she managed to do it so fast.

     "I've been doing practice-ponytails on my friends. Hence my newfound expertise! I thought it would look nice with the creamsicle color of your dress, and your long purple sleeves!"

     "It does! It so totally does!!" This time, Grace pulled her into a hug. "You're going places, kid."

     "Actually, I like here just fine," she muffled into Grace's puffy orange sleeve. "Your shoulder is like a pillow." She nuzzled it slightly, as it was very soft. "We have princess dresses at home, but their sleeves feel really plastic-y and rough. Like the bad side of Velcro. And they're so itchyyyyyyy."

     "You don't say... back where I came from, all the dresses were fancy. I think it would've been more fun to play pretend princess instead of—" Grace cut off when she saw Trinity looking into her eyes with her own wide, sparkling brown pair.

     "You were a princess?" she asked, breathlessly. Grace lifted her up and perched her on her lap.

     "Well, I lived like one, that's for sure. I had a big house, and fancy outfits, but I didn't have many friends; my parents only wanted me to associate with other princesses, and that got boring, because there weren't many around." She tried to laugh, but it caught in her throat. "They do say it's lonely at the top—"

     "Who says that?"

     "Uh... the ones at the top do. That's why I made the Apex when I got here. I wanted those at the top to never feel lonely again."

     "I think it's working; I don't feel lonely! I have you, and Shin'ichi!"

     "I'm happy to hear that, Trin." Carefully, Grace set her down on the floor.

     "I'm gonna go skating now! Maaaaybe you can come with?"

     "Oh, Trinity, you know I'm very busy. Maybe later, okay?"

     "Fiiiiiiiiiine." Dramatically, Trinity packed up her hair supplies in her skates and pulled them through the doorway like a toy dog on a leash. Not two seconds later did she dart back in, skates skittering behind her. "ICHI'S STEALING YOUR KNEEPADS!!!"

     "What?!"

     From somewhere outside, Grace caught another child's voice yelling back "Trin, you promised!!!"

     "Yeah, because you said 'BORROW,' not 'TAKE THEM WHEN SHE'S NOT LOOKING'!!!"

     Grace inhaled deeply and exhaled with a lip trill. "Okay, I'll take care of this. Thank you, Trinity." She stood abruptly, albeit elegantly from her chair, thankful for the lack of headrush. As she approached the doorway, Trinity clung to her skirt.

     "You're not gonna wheel them, are you?"

     "Wha—Trinity, of course I'm not! Wheeling is for denizens only; it's against Apex code to even harm humans!"

     "Okay, I'm just making sure. You know what the other kids are saying about them, right?"

     "N-no? What... are the others saying about Shin'ichi?"

     "They're saying—" Trinity gestured for Grace to kneel down, and whispered in her ear. "They're saying Ichi's number is fake, and that they're really a Null!!"

     "Why? That's a horrible thing to say!!"

     "I know!!! I threw glitter at those kids last time, but I can tell what they said hurt Ichi. Please just go easy on 'em. Pleeeeeaaaaase."

     "I wasn't planning to not go easy, but in that case, I'll go extra easy."

     "Yay!"

     Lithely, Grace slipped through the curtains of the changing-room-turned-throne-room to find Ichi just outside, their short black hair tied back in a tiny ponytail (no doubt by Trinity), teetering on an unstable stack of shoeboxes so as to reach one of the shelves of Grace's kneepad collection.

     "Ichi, what are you doing?" she asked gently, but assertively. The addressed party craned their neck to face her, then teetered, then tumbled off the boxes. Thankfully, Grace caught them in time, lowering them slowly to the ground, where they subsequently shirked away from her, before begrudgingly handing the kneepads over.

     "Thank you for helping me, Ichi."

     Shin'ichi blinked in surprise. "W-what?"

     "Well, I was having so much trouble deciding which kneepads would best match my outfit today, and it seems you've picked the perfect ones! See how they match my shoes, and my pack?" She gestured respectively to her sneakers, then to the pack strapped to her waist. "Also, I wanted to wear my new star earring," (she tapped the charm in her left ear as she said this) "but there was no other yellow in my outfit... until now! Not only that, but these pads have stars too! It's perfect!!"

     She said all this in earnest, and Shin'ichi could tell.

     "Oh... kay. You're welcome." They smiled shyly, then eagerly looked at their number. Suddenly their soft grin diminished.

     "No... no..." Ichi drew into a fetal position up against the shelf, pulling its red curtain around themself. Grace exchanged a worried glance with Trinity, who whispered, "They were trying to get their number up. Since we don't have our Waves, and can't go on raids yet, they just thought... they'd get a head start here." She blushed. "I... knew they were gonna do that. But I thought if I didn't tell you, then my number would go up too. Then maybe the other kids would be nice to both of us." Trinity uncurled her right hand to reveal a meager number 3, and Grace felt a knot in her stomach as she recalled Ichi's own singular digit.

     "I want to talk to them," whispered Grace. "I want to make things better for you both."

     Taking her cue, Trinity stepped forward. "Ichi and I are good friends; they'll listen to me." Carefully, she drew back the curtain. "Hey, Ichi, are you okay?"

     "Don't call me that!" Shin'ichi snapped; Grace caught a brief glimpse of their face. They had been crying.

     "I-I'm sorry, Trin. It's just... that's what I was called back home, and it was fine until... it became my least favorite number." Ichi opened their hand, and their number was 1. It had not budged ever since they arrived on the Train. "No wonder the others think I'm a Null; I'm closer to zero than any of them."

     "Ugh, stoooop. You know what you sound like? Simon. He's so obsessed with numbers, a-and shapes, that he forgets what the Apex is really about." Trinity offered her right hand. "And that's helping each other." Ichi didn't take it.

     "Simon says... that numbers tip the scales in our favor."

     "And every number counts!" Grace chimed in. "Your number is what makes you human!"

     "And human is what makes you Apex!" Trinity giggled. "You're not some dumb Null; you're a real person, like us! And Grace should know a thing or two about numbers—because hers is the highest!"

     Grace leaned down to address Ichi, who was now watching with dark and hesitant—albeit hopeful—eyes.

     "Shin'ichi, we're not on opposite scales; you and me and Trinity are all on the same side. It's the Nulls—the denizens—who we're trying to outweigh. And we can't do that without you." This time, Grace offered her own numbered hand. Ichi took it and stood up.

     "Thanks again for the kneepads; you kids have a future in revolutionizing the roller-skating industry."

     "YesyesYES!! Oh!—Grace, what happened to your nose??"

     "My... what?" Trinity tugged gently on one of Grace's long lavender sleeves, signaling for Grace to kneel down.

     "Juuuuuust a sec." She reached into her roller skates and pulled out a box of Band-Aids. Before Grace could protest, Trinity stuck one over Grace's nose, where Grace had tried to apply the blotch of botched lipstick.

     "There we go; rainbow suits you!"

     Realizing Trinity's misconception, Grace sighed with a smile on her face. "Trin, I'm not hurt, that's just—"

     "BYYYYYYYYYYYEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!" Trinity yelled, tugging Ichi and her skates to the exit. To Grace's relief, Ichi laughed and mouthed "thank you" to her. Grace stood up and waved to the two kids until they vanished around the corner. Then she put on her blue kneepads and returned to the throne room for one final piece of herself...

iii. mask: a raid

SHE’D crept through the door to the gangway undetected by Simon. This was a mild relief, as Grace wanted to be alone with her thoughts as she scoped out a new car to raid. However, she knew the reason for his declining observational skills. He was likely back in his room, toying with that new machine—which he said would be ready for use any day—or, even worse, playing with the white box. The day Grace had peeked through the door to find him, sitting upright, yet utterly catatonic—

     She slipped her golden mask over her eyes.

     "Hide the stones with flowers, hold the world with velvet gloves. Only pleasing things to look at, don't show anything unloved."

     The lullaby calmed her nerves, and she proceeded to the next car undeterred.

     Upon reaching the door, Grace was rather surprised to discover a familiar insignia had been sprayed over the red and the gold. Cautiously, she twisted the knob, and with a metallic click, it opened to reveal—

     A stage of destruction; the site of their last proper Raid. Before everything changed/before the fire sparked burned a line between her and Simon. Grace inhaled the dead air, the scorched sets, the landscape the Apex had left in their wake.

     She could hardly contain her excitement as she turned back to the Mall.

ϕ

     "What are we doing out here? I was almost done with the Machine."

     "Hey Si, by all means, turn around if you want; I'll just raid this car on my own."

     "Hence the mask?" he asked, dismally.

     "Hence the mask. Mask stays on. You got that, ponyt—"

     A pale hand shot to Simon's jagged cut hair. The place that Grace used to teasingly touch. It was gone. That connection was gone. He was—

     "—ail?"

     Simon's eyes fluttered open. In the midst of a raid of all things—how foolish he had been to drift off! Too many nights spent tampering with that Machine...

     "Earth to Simon?"

     "We're not on Earth, Grace."

     "Who's to say? Maybe 'Earth' is just a state of mind!" She bounded across the stage, humming herself a tune. Simon realized it was just him and her—the rest of the Apex had been left behind.

     "Grace... where did the kids go?"

     "Oh, they're back at the Mall; don't worry, they can handle themselves! Besides, I thought you would like to revisit this place."

     Simon slowly became conscious that he was kneeling upon an illuminated stage. Grace stood ablaze on the platform above: her golden mask donned, eyes obscured. Regal as all get out—the personification of the Sun. And Simon orbited her...

     They both existed on the stage, though it was clear who was the star—all lines rehearsed, her own esteemed choreographer. Simon felt almost inclined to retreat into the audience, shirk away from her light, for fear of being burned. He loved Grace pyroclastically, and there was devastation in obsession of a steepened caliber. For the city of Pompeii and the neighboring mountain Vesuvius were most certainly friends for a time, but all it took was a mere fracture of the mount's Sun-graced facade for the city's structure and routine to agonizingly freeze/scorch all in due time. Ashes to ashes, you couldn't fault the mountain for expunging all its grievances upon the unsuspecting, reverent Pompeii below, who had not once thought to ascend to the volcano's level, see the world from its glorious and lonely elevation. Mayhaps if Simon tried to look Grace in the eyes before her gleaming mask fissured beneath the weight of the sky, he would spare himself an ashen demise.

     "Come on up here, Simon; it's more fun!"

     "Is it?" Simon choked out. "I'm just more comfortable below."

     "Suit yourself," Grace smirked, sitting down on the platform and dangling her legs over the ledge. "A compromise!"

     "I suppose," Simon said, without the heart to feign a smile. Talking to Grace like this was almost like old times... this retrospective replication frightened him.

     Grace, on the other hand, was an excellent actress. She could feign forgettance/pretend the flames in this car had only recently diminished. Anything to avoid the inevitable reignition of the fight which had rent them apart.

     "So, this machine you're working on..."

     "You're gonna call me a recluse, I know."

     "That machine you've been reclusively working on... what the heck does it do? You called it a 'game-changer' yesterday."

     "Well, assuming I get it finished, it will be. You know how my number-tracker can only get us so far?"

     "You mean that dinky golden gizmo you always keep in your pocket? Oh yeah, it's a reeeaaal help." Her thoughts reflexively flickered across the many occasions the Apex had stormed into a car, expecting to walk away with a new recruit, only to encounter a very disgruntled adult.

     "That's the thing," Simon said dryly. "This new Machine—should it work—will eliminate the gambles that we take in tracking down new strays. Gone will be the days of chasing anonymous dots. With my Machine, we'll even be able to identify passengers in their pods." At this, Grace's eyes lit up; it was common knowledge to them both that passengers being shipped to their seats remained undetected by the number-tracker's radar. Simon had attributed this to a technological gap, emphasized by the disparately sleek design of the pods and the baroque fashion of his device. Grace had forgotten this fact, however; the tech of the Train was hardly of interest to her.

     "Seriously? That's awesome!!! That way we'll be able to get to them before the False Conductor's propaganda sets in!"

     "I knew you'd be psyched about this!!! Come, I'll show it to you—" He stood up as if to leave, and Grace set her hands on his shoulders.

     "Woah woah, hey, stay down, Si; we are not in a rush to go back to your cave." Before Simon could protest, Grace reached under his arms and lifted him upwards. "I—need your help a bit, man." Simon used his legs to hoist himself up, finally taking a seat beside her on the platform.

     "You've gotta warn a guy before you do something like that. My arms could've been torn off!"

     As he rubbed his shoulders—no doubt to make sure that they were indeed still intact—Grace trilled her lips in mock retaliation. Simon laughed in spite of himself.

     "You're gonna flip when you see the Machine; it's gonna change the Apex forever."

     "You seem veeery confident in that assertion, Simon." Grace leaned back on the stage and put her hands behind her head. "You never struck me as the mechanic type, either. What are you building it out of?" she asked. Eagerly, Simon turned to face her.

     "Oh, it's amazing; I managed to get my hands on more Train tech from the Golden Age! The device itself is a repurposed head from one of the original Stewards!"

     "Well color me intrigued; please enlighten me, Simon: what exactly qualifies as 'Golden Age' Train tech?"

     Simon inhaled as he pulled out his number-tracker, an ornate golden circular gizmo that indicated passengers with red dots on a nondescript map of Train cars. "It's stuff like this; you can tell by the gilded style and simple interface. It's not as sleek as current tech, but it holds up just as well."

     Grace nodded slowly. "It kinda looks like that pod the Cat has." She winced, hoping she hadn't touched a nerve in mentioning Simon's ex-denizen guardian. Thankfully, he seemed open to exploring this branch in the discussion.

     "Yeah, actually, she has tons of this stuff; the Train's reboot is what prompted her to start collecting. She lost everything, Grace; she's the last Golden Age denizen left—"

     "Whoa, okay, Si—slow down," Grace sat up suddenly, and looked him in the eyes. "You keep referencing this 'Golden Age'—just how long ago did it happen?!"

     "The Cat told me," Simon said slowly, "that many millennia ago, the Train had a MASSIVE reboot. All its technology changed; all its original cars were discarded in a now-condemned quarantine. Almost all of the original denizens were transformed into Ghoms. Even the style of the numbers got revamped."

     "You don't say," Grace muttered, pulling up her righthand lavender sleeve to examine her own glowing digits. "Why do you reckon the Conductor did all that?"

     "Beats me, but hey, who doesn't like a fresh start? Maybe the old tech just wasn't working for him." He paused, pensively. "Although... the Cat did say... it had something to do with a malfunction. A malfunction of the Brakeman."

     "Brakeman?" Grace scoffed. "This is the first that I've heard of a Brakeman. What exactly happened to it—er, him?"

     "In layman's terms, the Brakeman broke, and the Conductor rebooted the Train to accommodate for his absence. All these different tasks that were ascribed to the Brakeman became the responsibility of the Conductor. Like giving out numbers, and fixing the cars. That's why the Stewards were made, before they defected to One-One's command. Actually, the original Stewards weren't even called that—I think the Cat called them Pilots. Because they flew around in these massive red ships. She also said something about those being where passengers were 'processed' (whatever that means). Oh! And the ships had this brilliant beam that could conceal something called Brakeman's Gold, so the Pilots could enter and repair cars while they were concealed, 'cause that's what they were made out of. It's kinda what everything was made out of.” 

     "A golden Train..." murmured Grace wistfully. The notion seemed beautiful.

     "The Cat told me that Brakeman's Gold is crazy hard to come by nowadays, but all the tech was made out of it. Heck, for all I know, my number-tracker could be as well. Anyway, since there didn't used to be pods—those were implemented after the reboot—these ships and their Pilots and the Brakeman ran the whole operation. The Conductor just created the cars and kept everything moving. Like a supervisor, or director of sorts. More like what a real conductor does."

     Grace took a moment to process all this, then bit her lower lip. "Soooo, did she say what happened to the Brakeman? How it... broke, as you said?"

     "I asked her that too; she said it sort of happened over time. The way she put it, though... it almost seemed like he and the Conductor had some sort of falling out." Simon looked down, as if in mourning of another gently drifting dynamic that was soon to be sent asunder by Necessity's wicked hand. "I wonder if he was human too."

     Grace felt suddenly cold in her own humanness and stood up with conviction. "Let's go back, hm? The kids are probably worried by now."

     "Oh—okay."

     Simon turned quickly to her/twisting his whole body/craning his neck (à la Christina's World).

     "You're the Conductor of the Apex, Grace. You know that."

     "I know," she said, as she slipped off the stage.

iv. schi/sm

THE gangway was uncharacteristically cold. Simon didn't know what to say/if the wind would take his words away.

     "Hey... did you think I was talking about—"

     "No," said Grace. Simon stopped walking.

     "I want to go back too, you know—to doing raids together. To talking. I miss that; it can be sickening, staying in the Mall Car all the time."

     Grace stared assertively ahead, out into the craggy, deserty Wasteland surrounding the Train. Were those mountains on the horizon/was that a yellow sky beyond the crimson clouds?

     "You need to prove I can trust you again. You haven't really been trying, Simon."

     "Just tell me what I have to do—I-I'll do it, okay? Anything to get y—us, back." There was earnest desperation in his plea. Grace could hardly stomach it. Even though they stood at eye-level again, they hardly saw eye-to-eye.

     Grace looked down at her number, and as she did so, Simon twitched, reverting back to his militant mindset. "Oh... I see what you're doing. You're trying to keep me from surpassing you. Because my number shot up when I—"

     "SIMON!" (he abruptly shut up) "This is not about us; it's about the Apex. Those kids always come first—not our personal problems, and especially not you." She put a hand to her right arm protectively (defensively), realizing the weight of her words. "Just... I'm not ready to trust you again. Maybe... I'm scared to admit that I'm wrong." She clutched the gangway railing and looked down, hypnotized by the motion of the tracks and the wheels far below. Simon witnessed her in profile now—but then again, when hadn't he? Always perceiving Grace through the lens of the facade she fed him/never seeing both sides/refusing to. That she was literally wearing a mask only served to cement his delusion.

     "Grace, I—" Simon gasped softly as the green hue of his irises overflowed into the whites of his eyes. No sooner had the light/hallucination? touched him did it pan over Grace, who didn't seem to notice.

     Notice how it shone across her mask/shone through it/there was suddenly no mask/only Grace's true face/and Simon lost all power to breathe/where had her Wave gone—

     "I thought coming here with you would help fix something, but how can anything be fixed when I don't even know what we broke?"

     Simon awoke; the floor was cold and rough and heavy under him. It was not a floor, but rather a roof. Of a car. In the ceilingless corridor wherein countless, colossal train wheels had rolled. No ceiling save for the sky...

     Grace, once again, was above him on the ledge, looking out over the Wasteland; forlorn. Her face obscured by shadow/a disk dangling from her lax fingertips. Elegant, Vesuvian, she was fit to erupt—in tears, laughter, fury? What did it matter? The mask would shatter either way. She'd already slipped through the cracks...

     "Your fugue states have been getting worse; you thought I wouldn't notice?" she said, words carried upon the wind. The same which softly moved her locs, as well as the skirt of her knee-length sunset-orange dress. Grace's words blew away before they could reach Simon's ears. Hesitantly, he contemplated ascending to her level, so that he may look her in the eyes, explain himself. A fruitless ideal, if any, but an alluring one: to be understood utterly, motivations and all. Strapped to his back—and to hers—was one of the Apex's harpoon packs, a magnetic device which enabled the wearer to swiftly traverse the cars of the Train. It was not without its faults, of course (Simon reflected grimly upon Lucy's punctured eye), but as with all such devices, it required practice to master its manipulation. This was evident in the way Grace used her own pack as if it were a natural extension of her body/in the same way she used her obstructions as a means to an end. Simon wondered if he had been, at a time—perhaps even right now—one such obstruction to Grace. In a twisted way, he liked being used; it granted him purpose/let him shirk the blame. He favored himself a machine as opposed to the autonomous wretch who drove a wedge through an eight-year-strong friendship with the careless slaughter of—

     "A human's hands built the Train; digits and all. A man-made marvel. That human was known as the Conductor."

     Simon's right hand instinctively twitched—wherein he'd clutched a stick of chalk, wherein he'd counted, countless times...

     "Two years ago, the Conductor disappeared, and was replaced by a robot who calls himself One-One."

     He swallowed something. It may have been his own stomach.

     "One-One, the False Conductor, wants his army of fellow robots to conquer the Train in humanity's stead. Hence his insistence to get your numbers to zero. Once that happens, you vanish. Forever."

     Gone forever...

     "Every human has a number, and while that signifies power, it also gives One-One a way to eradicate us. If someone—or something—doesn't have a number, that means they're a robot too—a 'denizen' of the Train. You can't trust them, but you can outwit them. And, better yet, you can kill them. This is how we'll win the battle against—"

     His first encounter with a humanoid denizen had been about a year ago; they bore the resemblance of a 13-year-old kid, with one slight exception: their silver complexion. The Apex had failed to wheel them, but Simon had not failed. SIMON HAD NOT FAILED TO WHEEL THE NEXT ONE.

     "That's why Grace and I invented 'wheeling,' a way to show the denizens who really rules the Train."

     The man's skin had been the color of sand, the same which a baby turtle may traverse in its initial voyage to the sea. His hair, the same blonde hue as Simon's own. His glasses, half-circles, like that enigmatic shape Simon had preached on earlier today.

     "One-One is getting smart, though—trying to deceive us with new, humanoid denizens. They're still rough around the edges: silvery skin, blank, quicksilver eyes. Those are the telltale signs... for these prototypes, that is. We think they'll get more advanced over time... soon they'll look just like one of you or me. But there will always be one key distinction:"

     He had never seen a number/he'd never not seen a number.

     "That's how you'll know who the real humans are; it's the only surefire way. The one thing they can't replicate..."

     But the color of the man's blood—he'd never forget it...

     The same iridescence of an oil spill. The same corrupted rainbow that could poison the sea...

     Simon had told her these things. These things he couldn't begin to describe—

     He had paid in hair. In friendship. In sobriety...

     "The Apex will have to learn how to confront the discomfort inherent to killing these new denizens. It will be hard, but I know you are strong. And observant. I know you can't possibly fail. Because you know the difference between man and machine."

     "Simon?"

     He'd wrapped a sheath around his eyes. And he was gone.

     "Can you hear me, Simon?"

     A torn sleeve of his white hoodie/still blotched with red chalk dust/served to obscure Simon's crystal green all-knowing eyes. The cloth was thick and went over the bridge of his nose/around his ears/was tied in a knot at the back of his head. Clutched in his hands, the harpoons/he shot them to the platform where Grace stood, aghast. He soared, slightly, then stumbled. Scaling the last few inches of the vertical wall.

     Now he was parallel to her, and equally masked. Now he could perceive her honestly—without the deception of his eyes! Had he not inhibited his sight in such a way, Simon may have beheld two twin star-studded wishing wells, glittering mesmerically as he brought up his hands, drawing her into a dance on the roof of the Train. It was an eerily distant and passionless waltz—the ghost of a waltz, I should say. Neither swayed to the same rhythm; they hardly made first contact. Maybe they spun, though I'd hardly wager they leapt. There was the fear of falling in Simon's stomach, and perplexity in Grace's mind. Cowardice and confusion scarcely sit well within each other.

     Neither did Grace settle for this masquerade. And when Simon's frigid hand at last found hers, she let out a soft sound/a subsequent, golden clatter. Simon had touched what had ought to have been on her face: her own mask. That which painted them both as equals: both obfuscated/duplicitous/distant. There came that gnawing notion again—that of schism and splinter and splice. Simon was no closer to Grace than he had been last year, in the car with the stage/burning everything down/as she wrestled Thalia and Melpomene/as he indulged in glass far above/she below.

     Mayhaps they reconvened upon the stage, but there was distance yet still! In action! Or the lack thereof! Different lines/disparate, conflicting roles. She the costumed lead, and himself, the stagehand. He hung on her every word/every breath/took her cues/respected the spotlight. And in his effort to join her in it, had once again disrupted the sacred equilibrium of division; the balance achieved through not only the beam of the light, but also the beam of the scales.

     He fumbled for something familiar—her number. A surefire reassurance of who was in control—who knew all of the rules, every step, every line. She who could mend any possible mishap with dazzling improvisation. She who could even distract from the spillage of innocent blood with the canvas she stroked it upon. Simon had witnessed firsthand as Grace claimed many a denizen life. And he had done the same—motivated not by a misplaced need to protect what was real, to avenge man from machine, but rather exert a sense of control. Absolute. In the shape of a rhythmic sine wave/in the hue of humanity's blood. Mayhaps he relished in it/mistook Grace's performance for pleasure/bloodlust. She was an actor/himself, a killer. This was all a show to Grace/to Simon, a warzone. And I presume it's almost marginally easier to lay down a mask before a captive audience than let go of your sword in the face of an armed nemesis.

     But, I digress. He reached for her right hand, and then—

     She was out of his reach/of his league/cars away. Having run after something that Simon could not see.

ϕ

     Grace held her harpoons at the ready as she ran, the viscous air in her lungs, and adrenaline in her veins. What she had seen over Simon's shoulder ought to have blended into the sky, for it shared the same bright red hue. The same color as her lipstick, of the Train car doors... of blood, untainted by poison rainbows.

     Grace couldn't help but believe it had come here for her.

     It was the shape of an egg, with two ovular protrusions on either side of its base. A triangular, segmented, gold-tinted window pane at the apex of the UFO caught her eye; she wondered who was inside, and if they were chasing her too.

     She ran for who-knows-how-long, soaring from car to car by the cords of her magnetic pack. The Egg never leaving her sight, nor the hypnotic green beam of light that it cast. Not unlike that of her own number...

     Like that of a lighthouse, the beam graced the cars before again casting its light upon Grace herself. She gasped, overtaken by a strange soft sense of tranquility. When she next opened her eyes, the ship had vanished.

     Though not all was lost, for Grace had the instinct to look upwards—just in time!!!—to discover a hole in the sky. It was only there for a split second, but she saw it nonetheless: a pinprick puncture through the red, unveiling a tunnel of iridescent clouds, which parted, very high up, to reveal the color purple, and a new constellation for her eyes to drink in.

ϕ

     Some time later, she returned, dark eyes ablaze/euphoric. They burned through the blindfold, her voice soaking into the cloth wrapped over Simon's ears. Making incisions in Simon's psyche/her spellbound stupor, infectious.

     He had been decidedly numb, and herself, set aflame with the drug of discovery. The scales had been tipped once again—not that they ever had shared the same height anyway. Not that Simon and Grace had ever seen eye-to-eye, nor would they ever again after this. She was the one, after all, who stepped forth. Simon traced her footsteps with his own. He was the cautionary; she, adventure-seeker.

     Simon had surrendered his sight for fear of facing Grace as she truly was; he knew she had not been wearing the mask. He knew he could never meet her on the level she expected him to: somewhere vulnerable/visceral.

     If Grace Monroe was not perfect, then he was deceived. So naturally, when she told what she saw, Simon was certain she had lost her mind. And that he was soon to follow:

     "Oh, Simon, you'll never guess what I saw: a real live actual spaceship!"