In the beginning, he had suspected that Qalu would eventually present her true agenda—or that he would awaken from this dream. Neither had occurred.

Physical necessities grew less outrageous and unpleasant through repetition, and he was beginning to take pleasure in food, just as Qalu had predicted. Everything was strange, but there was great joy in choosing colors, mixing them, making something from nothing, a feat he never could have imagined in his prior existence. He had no knack for poetry, but he loved painting. Crafting objects from another medium, he enjoyed that as well. And he had no aptitude for music. All these things, he’d learned while bearing Qalu company.

And she kept her promises. While they interacted constantly, sharing thoughts and ideas, she never touched without permission. He had explored the grounds a little, usually with Aevi watching from a distance, but mostly their lives had been quiet, no intrusions from her kinfolk or random callers. Qalu seemed to treasure a solitary existence, most unusual for a Tiralan.

There had been no movement in his memory, nor could he connect to the Tiralan network, but he grew used to searching for information manually. And slowly, he began to believe that his new incarnation wasn’t lesser, only different. The pain that had plagued him in the beginning no longer spiked, and he learned that overusing his body could create that feeling as well.

So much to process.

In his first attempts at art, he’d imitated other works, copying stroke for stroke, but Qalu said that wasn’t creation, only production. Now he wandered freely, seeking what she called “inspiration.” Currently, he stood near the crash site, not verifying her tale, but assessing the scraps of charred metal, the burned and dry foliage, and the scar his arrival had left on the landscape. The colors were both bleak and stunning, darkness interspersed with bright yellow vines that crawled across the wreckage, the hillside seeking to heal the damage.

He had been part of this ship, lived in the data clusters, and experienced the physical world only through a mech unit. There had probably been questions, even on Gravas Station. Fueling attendants would’ve wondered who his mech served, and if they scanned to find an “empty” ship, more inquiries would have followed. Is that what happened? Was I running from a threat when I crashed here? But why Tiralan of all places? It wasn’t a popular trade route, and Helix had no explanation for why he would’ve sought shelter here, if he’d felt imperiled.