Pointer is visibly winded. Her vehicle couldn't drive into the inner perimeter of the launch bay, so she had to run the last stretch.
But she has to make the most of her time. She came back to say what needed to be said.
Hissabeth speaks first.
Hissabeth: Are you alright? You look like you haven't slept in days.
Hissabeth: How many times have I told you that research requires a healthy body and mind? You need sleep.
Pointer: I'm ... here for ...
Hissabeth: Just so you know, I've got no time to help with whatever you're working on, and we're finishing this project, no matter what you say.
Hissabeth: Oh, let me guess. You're here for the car? Yes, I've used it a few times, took the team out to the mine, didn't break anything or get any tickets, but the tank's dry.
Her every theory misses the mark.
Pointer: It's not about any of that!
Hissabeth: Then you should have come earlier—days earlier, not today.
Hissabeth: The "Storm" is due to come in a couple hours. You won't make it to the Northern Branch.
Pointer falls silent for a moment instead, adjusting her breath.
Pointer: I'm here to settle your affairs. We need to secure your records in case you don't make it, and to see if the work you've done is actually worth your lives.
Pointer: Just so you know, if you don't survive, I'm going to finish our teleport disk and claim all the credit. Maybe I'll write a dissertation on it. I'll call it "Pointer's Teleport Disk," and you'll all just be a footnote, an "et al." in the citations.
Pointer: You know I'm not bluffing.
Hissabeth: Cool, whatever, Pointer. Just don't forget to tell me the results. Maybe send them to me via Ouija board.
Pointer: Are you being serious?
Hissabeth: Aren't you? Or are you trying to be funny now? I really can't tell.
The casual air she fought to maintain finally breaks.
Pointer: I'm just sick of eating instant noodles without the veggie packets!
Pointer: But more than that, I'm sick of you and your attitude!
Pointer: All you do is joke around!
Pointer: If veggies matter that much to a stupid bowl of noodles, how could you think your lives matter any less to me?!
Pointer: You want to treat your lives like a cosmic joke? Like your deaths won't matter. Well, they will to the ones you leave behind.
After giving up on controlling her volume and her thoughts, she catches a different expression on Hissabeth's face.
Guilt, sadness, shock? None of the above.
She has simply put away her smile.
Hissabeth: I see your point.
Hissabeth: Luckily, I've already made a copy of everything on this data card.
A brighter, more genuine smile appears.
Hissabeth: I've been wondering who I should trust with it. It's not 100% safe to send back through the teleportation ritual.
Hissabeth: It's good to have you back.
The thin card is handed to her again.
Hissabeth: The editing isn't done. Han Zhang—yeah, I can remember his name now—I didn't have time to finish his part.
Hissabeth: But who has time to edit a suicide note?
Hissabeth: The only thing that matters is that it's in the hands of someone who will take it seriously.
Hissabeth: Take it and go. You can still make it back.
The data card feels faintly warm. It must have been in her pocket the entire time.
Pointer: sigh Forget it. You already told me the car's out of gas.
Pointer: So, I'll be your witness.
Hissabeth: You sure you wanna die with us, after all?
Pointer doesn't respond. She just takes a step forward.
Pointer: Call it a fool's wish, but I'm hoping no one is ever going to need to see this.
Pointer: Catch me up to speed, what's the status of the project?
Hissabeth: We've managed to refine the teleportation to pinpoint a fixed position, but there are still some serious side effects: dizziness, nausea, like the world's worst case of carsickness.
Pointer: It'll have to suffice for now. I think I can work that out after I finish reading your progress.
Hissabeth: Cool, I'll look forward to that.
She points to the door.
Hissabeth: Your office should be the same as you left it, besides a layer of dust. Be grateful though. You should see the state of mine.
Hissabeth: Oh, and don't activate the teleportation anywhere around here. If it takes out the single critical component, we'll be screwed completely.
Pointer: Like I don't know.
Pointer: You need a hand here? I can help.
Hissabeth: I thought we already figured out our roles? You need to stay at a safe distance to protect the data.
She can't quite tell if there's mockery in her words.
But she doesn't need to get to the bottom of it. Language is vague and fleeting. Words lose meaning the moment they're spoken.
Pointer: That's it.
Before turning around, she pauses and tucks her hair behind her ear.
Her data ports and mechanical components reflect in the sterile light of the lab.
Pointer: Ha. I always thought I wasn't able to act against my safety programming.
Pointer: Yet here we are.
Another rare expression on Hissabeth's face. Pointer's database logs it as a surprise, but the emotion doesn't linger long.
Hissabeth: Do you have a sense of taste?
Pointer once thought her facial expression metrics could no longer be thrown off by strange inputs. Yet her smile is off its index by 0.35 degrees.
Pointer: Yeah. I was designed to simulate all aspects of life.
Hissabeth: Really? But whose life? Who decided whether it should be a human's or arcanist's life?
Hissabeth: I suppose you are probably another Awakened arcanist, like Ulrich and Madam Lucy.
Pointer: Not exactly. But the details can wait.
Pointer: I thought you would be more encouraging at such a vital moment. Guess my prediction matrix is not quite as perfect as I've let on.
Hissabeth: I am encouraging you. I'm trying to prove your existence matters.
Faced with Hissabeth tilting her head in confusion, Pointer's smile registers even higher.
Since leaving the Cosmodrome, this is the lightest she's felt.
Pointer: Well, I should go. Take care.
Hissabeth: Time for another double-check. Everything needs to be flawless.
This hallway is etched into Pointer's memory. She could navigate it without any sensors.
As she turns, Hissabeth calls out to her.
Hissabeth: Pointer!
Hissabeth: You know, I should have mentioned something before, something I wanted you to see.
Hissabeth: There are Melusine statues everywhere in Lusignan!
Hissabeth: I left a long time ago, but they should still be there. Even the "Storm" can't wash them away. They've been there for ages!
Hissabeth: Go take a look if you ever get the time!
Pointer: I don't think Laplace would cover that as a scientific excursion.
She doesn't stop or turn back, but gives Hissabeth a gesture.
The name is Pointer. Researcher in LSCC Plesetsk Branch. Former team member on the Space Monitor Project.
The reason I quit? Because someone must be prepared for the worst-case scenario.
And because I was tired of freeze-dried noodles.
Two other friends have come to say a quiet goodbye.
Though they can't quite exchange wishes through speech, they still try.
Voyager struggles to control the marker, but she writes, and Kiperina waits patiently.
The markings on her palm form a complex, indecipherable pattern—precise in geometry, yet unreadable in meaning.
Voyager: Alia. Come home.
The little astronaut pulls her focus away from the pattern. She takes a few deep breaths, just to be sure she heard it right.
Kiperina: That was three whole words!
Kiperina: Maybe once you learn a few more, you can tell me where you're really from.
Voyager: ...
There's a shift of weight on her shoe.
Kiperina lowers her head. A familiar little snake looks back up at her.
Snake VIII: My sister sent me to tell you it's time.
Snake VIII: And that you shouldn't be afraid. You'll make one cool astronaut, ask any of us.
Kiperina: I'm not afraid.
Kiperina: When I return, remind me to show you Natalya's famous jam recipe.
Maybe the pattern really does hold some kind of magic, or maybe it's just the feeling of looking forward to the future.
But either way, her steps feel lighter.
Kiperina: Final diagnostics completed.
Kiperina: We're clear for launch in T-minus one minute.
Kiperina: Is there anything else I have to remember?
Hissabeth: Yes: keep breathing.
Kiperina: Really, a joke now? Or are you serious?
Hissabeth: It can be both things.
Hissabeth: Now get ready, and have a safe flight.
The transmission ends. Hissabeth scans each face in the launch bay, the confidence in her teammates putting her at ease.
She knows that everyone here is committed to the end. She places her hand on the button.
Hissabeth: Three.
Hissabeth: Two.
Hissabeth: One.
Hissabeth: Ignition.
