Kanaya
You’re alone.
The dreambubble brings back bitter memories. It’s an amalgamation of your old home, back on Earth, and a troll hive.
At least, you think it’s a troll hive.
Anyway. You’d refused to look in your mother’s bedroom, lest you be tempted by the alcohol behind the bar. You’ve promised yourself that you’ll never go near that stuff ever again.
You don’t know how alcohol will affect you now, anyway. You’re at least ninety-nine percent sure it’d do nothing; all the ghosts you met on the meteor seemed to subside of nothing but memories and willpower.
You pull yourself back together, and take refuge in your bedroom. It’s quiet. Your old knitting is strewn across the floor, but you feel no urge to pick up the needles and set them clicking. At this point, you have no desire to wield needles ever again.
It seems you’ll be here for a long time, just thinking. You’re not entirely sure anyone is even in this dreambubble with you. You might be alone forever.
You brush away that thought. You’re comfortable, anyway. There’s no longer any blood on your God-Tier dress, and the silence is quite comforting.
For some reason, you think, about her. Your mom, that is. You’re not completely sure which mom: the one who (supposedly) raised you, or the one who’s your age. Was your age, you think?
Time’s strange in these bubbles, and you’re no Time player. You have literally no clue how long you’ve been here. However, a feeling tells you it hasn’t really been any longer than a day at most.
Slam. It’s one of the looser doors, which you used to love to slam when you were younger, when you were angry. You weren’t angry now- you just felt empty. Regardless, you stand up, and poke your head out of the door.
There’s a shadow, but you can’t make out who it is. You’re not entirely sure if you can die, so you’re not all that bothered if they’re malicious or not.
You retreat back into the relative safety and familiarity of your bedroom, leaving the door open for the visitor to join you in their own time. Inside, you glance at the drawing of the Horrorterror on your wall, and shudder.
The next thing you do is throw the scrunched up piece of paper out of your window. God, thirteen-year-old-you was embarrassing.
You’re lying on your bed when the visitor inches your door open. (Okay, you left it only just open.)
“Knock knock,” she murmurs, and you don’t even have to look over to know who it is.
Okay. You’re not alone, after all.
You sit up, and turn to face her. “Hello, Kanaya.”
Your legs are dangling off the bed. She sits beside you, her skin cooler than yours. You know this from hours of being in contact with her, and the fact that her skin is pressed flush to yours. It’s even more familiar than the room you’re in.
You’re not entirely sure, but you have a feeling this is your Kanaya. Before anything happens, though, you want to find out if this is your Kanaya. Because, oh boy, do you miss her.
She seems to think the same, as she says: “Um, Rose- are you my Rose?”
“I don’t know. I have a feeling I am, but it’s a good idea to be sure. Here, I’ll start-“ Your breath catches for a moment; you’ve not really taken any time to recall your death. Muder by trident at the hands of the Batterwitch. Fun.
Kanaya is giving you a concerned look. You look down, frown a little, and swallow. “I was killed by the Condesce, trident through my chest.”
There. You said it. You remind yourself to breathe.
Kanaya shrugged. “I can’t remember my Rose dying. She must’ve lived or… died after I did.” She pauses, much like you did. You lean against her. She clears her throat, and continues. “I, too, was killed by the Condesce. Psionics.”
You remember. You remember her body vaporising, remember the tears that sprinted down your face, remember the rage that flooded your very soul. You remember your final leap, needles out, and then pain. And nothing.
In that moment, you are at least one-hundred-percent positive this is your Kanaya.
“Well, your memories line up pretty fucking well with mine, my Kanaya,” you say, voice barely a whisper. She breathes in, suddenly, shuddering. She’s a pane of glass, slowly shattering, and it’s your responsibility to hold her together.
So you do. You turn, and grab hold of her in the most awkward side-hug you’ve ever given. (Granted, you haven’t given many, but still.)
She clutches at you, and you can feel her sharp troll nails digging into your skin. You cling to the feeling, and cling to her.
You squeeze your eyes shut, and just enjoy holding her. She’s crying silently into your dress shoulder, and you know those green tears of hers will stain it.
Whatever- it’s just nice to hold her. You’re not okay, and neither is she; you won’t be okay for a long time.
But now, you have her. And you can work through it.
Together.