Fatutu: No! Toa, brother!
Fatutu: I ... I'm coming to save you!
Fatutu: The storm is coming. The shell ... our island ...
Fatutu: I'm sorry.
Fatutu lies on the examination bed, eyes shut tight, brow furrowed, mumbling in her sleep, fighting against the weight of her dream.
Sonetto: It's strange to see Miss Fatutu look like this. I don't know if I've ever seen her so troubled.
She peers through the window, watching with quiet worry.
Sonetto: Timekeeper, it's strange. When she's awake, she never shows any sadness at all.
Sonetto: Even when she first submitted her request, she didn't seem afraid or sad. It felt oddly clinical, like she was only asking for cough syrup.
Sonetto: She's been so warm and kind to everyone here. She never let on about this, even as she was doing so much to help others.
Sonetto: I suppose I just don't understand her. If she's hurting so much inside, why wouldn't she let us know?
Sonetto: Timekeeper, could it be that she still doesn't trust us?
Vertin: Asking for our help may not be her first instinct right now.
Sonetto: ...
Sonetto: The Foundation looks out for everyone. All she had to do was ask.
Sonetto: I had hoped she would want to be friends.
Vertin: I'm sure she does, in her own way. We just need to give her more time.
Vertin: We'll be here for her. But she has to settle in first—learn to feel safe.
Sonetto: Understood.
Sonetto: Let's hope Mesmer Jr.'s Artificial Somnambulism Therapy can help Miss Fatutu recover.
Mesmer Jr.: You may not want to set your expectations too high. This treatment is far from a panacea.
The therapist steps out from the recovery room, pristine as ever, speaking plainly and without pretense.
Mesmer Jr.: I evaluated this "patient" earlier. I had been preparing to guide her into a dream state, but before I could begin, she had already entered one on her own.
Mesmer Jr.: It's just as you see there.
Mesmer Jr.: But there's nothing so complex about her nightmares. Nothing that requires Artificial Somnambulism Therapy.
Mesmer Jr.: This is nothing less than pure and unfiltered homesickness.
Sonetto: Is there any other way to ease Miss Fatutu's pain?
Mesmer Jr.: Ease her pain?
Mesmer Jr.: As I said, you may be overestimating our capabilities, or perhaps I should say underestimating the nature of her suffering.
Mesmer Jr.: I would never argue that Artificial Somnambulism Therapy is anything other than a remarkable leap in science.
Mesmer Jr.: It's helped correct behavioral issues caused by the "Storm"—paranoia, compulsions, violence—those things, yes.
Mesmer Jr.: But it can't erase or even relieve the pain.
Mesmer Jr.: At best, dream-guiding might offer a momentary distraction from the nightmares, but it would be a false comfort—escapism.
Mesmer Jr.: We can't rely on Artificial Somnambulism to save her.
Sonetto: ...
Vertin: ...
The rebuke leaves no room for argument.
Vertin: Miss Mesmer, are you saying you won't treat Fatutu?
Mesmer Jr.: I'm saying I have no treatment suitable for her.
Mesmer Jr.: All I can offer is some help falling asleep.
Mesmer Jr.: I wouldn't recommend anything more than a hot bath and a cup of warm milk.
Vertin: I see.
Mesmer Jr.: She'll wake soon. Despite what I've said, I believe she is capable of overcoming her pain. But there's nothing more I can do to help.
With that, the no-nonsense therapist turns and walks away, leaving no opening for further questions.
Sonetto: Fatutu ...
Her gaze lingers on the girl beside her. Then, without a word, she looks away again—quietly, unnoticed.
Sonetto: There must be something we can do.
Vertin: Let me think.
Some things can't be undone. Like glass shattered across the floor, too broken to piece back together.
Their present problem seems just as daunting. Side by side, the two lean against the wall in silence.
They're searching for a way to heal something as abstract as "heartache."
Yet suddenly, footsteps interrupt their thoughts—light, hurried, like wind chimes jingling with urgency.
Barcarola: Fatutu!
Barcarola: Where is Fatutu? Is she in there?
She grabs a sleeve, then someone's hand, eyes wide with concern.
Before anyone can answer, she's already flung herself toward the window, peering in at Fatutu lying on the recovery bed.
She presses up to the glass.
Barcarola: Fatutu, wake up! Fatutu ...
Sonetto: Ms. Barcarola.
Sonetto starts to step forward, but a hand reaches out to stop her. Her superior gives a slight shake of the head—wait.
Barcarola: I have something very important to tell you, Fatutu!
Her voice reaches through. Fatutu stirs from her bed, her eyes flutter open softly, searching for the calling voice.
Barcarola: You're awake! Fatutu!
She leaps toward her like a dolphin sailing up over sunlit waves, in an irrepressible motion.
Fatutu: Barcarola?
Barcarola: Chiaro, who else would it be?
Barcarola: Time to wake up. There's something far more important than sleeping to be done now!
Fatutu: What is it?
Barcarola: It's trade season!
Fatutu: ...
Fatutu: ...!
Barcarola: The trade season is just about to begin!
