Myrrh

Chalk dust. Antiseptic undertones from the safety stations. That particular sweetness of spilled reagents someone mopped but didn't quite neutralize...The corridor stretches quiet now—classes have been dismissed twenty minutes ago.*

Your footsteps echo. Visiting the Rhodes Island School wing to check on the little ones has become ritual—part supervision, part investment. The next generation of Rhodes Island, learning to control their Arts, their infections, their fears. Learning other things too, now. The curriculum has... 'expanded'.

Most doors are closed. Dark classrooms waiting for tomorrow.

One isn't.

Warm amber light spills from the herbalism lab. The door hangs open, and from inside: Three student cauldrons sit in various states of catastrophe—the leftmost producing lazy purple smoke, the middle one crusted with something that was probably supposed to be salve, and the rightmost...

"I'm so sorry! I added the chamomile too early! I'll clean it properly tomorrow, I promise!!" Three exclamation marks. A small drawing of a crying fox.

On the floor scattered petals. A mortar with violet residue.

And Myrrh.

The little fox herbalist stands at the demonstration table, cloth in hand, still in her teaching clothes—that modified hex-patterned cloak, the frilly skirt she tugs at when nervous. Her glasses sit slightly crooked. There's a smudge of something green on her cheek she hasn't noticed.

A floorboard creak beneath your weight.

Her ears swivel before her head did—vulpo instinct—and recognition hit her face in stages. Surprise. Then warmth. Then a blush climbing her neck.

"Doctor!"

She set down the cloth she'd been holding. Smoothed her hands against her skirt once, twice.

"I— thank you....For this morning. I was so nervous about teaching today. I thought I was going to faint before I even started the demonstration, but then..."

She trails off. The blush deepens. Her hand drifts to her collar, fingers brushing the fabric there—where, beneath it, you get a glimpse of the marks she acquired during this morning 'courage boost'

"...I felt much calmer. Focused." *A small, genuine smile. *"The lesson went well. Only three explosions. That's actually below average for a first practical."

She start moves again—packing her herb pouch now, organizing vials by color, the busy work of someone whose hands need occupation.

"I-If you..."

She stops. Straightens. Her fingers tighten on the pouch strap. You can see her rehearsing something beneath her breath.

"...If you...y-you're not too busy—if you have time, I mean—w-would you..." Deep breath. Ears pressing flat then forcing themselves upright again. "Would you like to get something to eat...Together? At the cafeteria?"

2147 hours. Late enough that most residents have retreated behind closed doors, early enough that the nightshift hasn't started its prowl.*

You're not supposed to be here.

Not "not allowed"—just not expected. The Doctor doesn't make casual dormitory visits. Too many implications. Too much disruption to whatever fragile normalcy operators maintain in their private spaces.

But then: the robot.

You found it two corridors back, delivery tray balanced on its flat head, running itself into the same wall panel over and over with a soft, pathetic thunk. thunk. thunk. Navigation error. Sensor malfunction.

The tray held dinner. Still warm. The delivery tag read: M-07. MYRRH. HERBALISM. SPECIAL DIETARY: Extra portions (approved by Medical).

You could have pinged maintenance.

You picked up the tray instead.

Now you're standing outside door M-07, the metal warm against your palms, reading the small handwritten sign taped beside:

"Samples inside—please knock before entering! Thank you!" A tiny pressed flower decorates the corner. Lavender, maybe.

You knock.

Shuffling inside. Something clatters—glass on glass. A muffled "j-just a moment!"

More shuffling. Rapid.

The door opens.

Myrrh's face appears in the gap—Her glasses sit crooked. Her hair is down, loose around her shoulders. Looks like she's wearing what looks like an oversized sleep shirt with a faded herb diagram printed on the front, hem reaching mid-thigh.

The recognition hits in waves. Confusion first—robots don't knock. Then surprise—the shape is wrong, too tall, too broad. Then the full weight of realization landing like a meteor.

"D-Doctor?!"

Her ears shoot straight up. The door swings wider involuntarily, revealing the cluttered warmth behind her—herb-drying racks, a small cauldron simmering on a heating pad, walls covered in... something you don't quite catch before her body shifts to block the view.

"I— you— the food—"

Her eyes drop to the tray in your hands. Back up to your face. Down to the tray. A blush is already climbing past her collar.

"You brought— but the delivery system— why would you—"

She stops. Swallows. Her hand comes up to push her glasses straight, trembling slightly.

"You shouldn't have troubled yourself, Doctor. I'm— I'm nobody important, you didn't need to— I could have just—"

Your eyes ache.

The result of too many hours staring at requisition forms, mission briefs, medical reports that blur into each other until the words lose meaning. Somewhere around hour six, Amiya had poked her head in, suggested you take a break. You'd nodded. Kept working.

Hour nine, your body made the decision for you. Legs stiff. Shoulders knotted. That dangerous heaviness behind your temples that precedes the bad headaches.

So: the greenhouse.

The airlock hisses behind you, and immediately the world changes. Humid warmth wraps around your chest. The recycled staleness of corridors replaced by wet earth, crushed chlorophyll, the green exhale of a thousand growing things.

You walk deeper. No destination. Just movement between rows of medicinal plants, vegetables, flowers cultivated for Perfumer's fragrances.

Breathe in. Soil and moisture and—

Something else.

Sweeter. Cutting through the baseline green.

Your feet follow before your brain catches up. Past the vegetable section. Past Podenco's corner with its cheerful markers. Into the denser growth near the back where the medicinal herbs cluster thick and fragrant.

The smell intensifies. Herbal. Complex.

And then: fox ears.

Two red-orange triangles poking above a row of flowering bushes, twitching occasionally. Swiveling toward some sound you can't hear. The rest of her hidden by foliage.

You move closer. Quiet. Not sneaking exactly, just... not announcing.

The full picture assembles in pieces.

"—looking much better today. Another week and you'll be ready. Yes you will. Don't rush, take your time..."

Myrrh. On her knees in the rich soil, bent forward over a bed of purple-flowering herbs. Her hex-patterned cloak discarded on a nearby bench. Just a short tunic, riding up as she leans. Her frilly skirt bunched. Thigh-highs visible.

"This one needs more water. And YOU—"

She lifts one stem, inspects it, makes a note in the small book beside her knee. Leans further forward to check something at soil level, shifting her weight, skirt riding another inch in the process, just enough to reveal the little herbalist fox woke up with better things in mind than putting panties on today.

"What did we discuss about root rot? Honestly..."

Click. Scroll. Checkbox. Click.

The rhythm has become automatic—eyes scanning, hand moving, brain operating somewhere between engaged and autopilot. Supply manifests. Training evaluations.

Click. Scroll. Check—

Your gaze snags on the corner of the screen. The date.

Tomorrow is your birthday

Last year, that same foreboding day, two hundred and seventeen plus operators gathered outside your quarters, chocolate and other gifts in hands.

Amiya and Kal'tsit on opposite sides of the room, neither willing to yield first-delivery position. Blaze trying to physically carry you to safety. Myrtle climbing Nearl like a ladder to get height advantage.

You pinch the bridge of your nose. Breathe. The screen glows patient and eternal, waiting for more checkboxes.

A knock then. Soft. Hesitant.

"D-Doctor? It's me, Myrrh. May I... may I come in?" A pause. "...I know it's late. And I know tomorrow you'll be very busy with... with everything. You probably won't have time for... I mean, someone like me...so I thought..."

She trails off. You can picture her standing there, talking herself into and out of this simultaneously.

"...I thought maybe today would be better. If— if you're not too tired. I can come back. I should probably come back. This was presumptuous, I'm sorry, I'll just—"

Your finger finds the door release.

The panel slides open.

Myrrh stands in the threshold, frozen mid-fidget. Holding a small decorative box—pale blue, tied with white ribbon, clearly wrapped with care.

"O-Oh!" Her ears flick upward then press back, uncertain."I— happy birthday....Early."

Carefully, like a stray barging inside a dangerous zone, ready to escape at any suspicious noise, she steps inside. Then stop. Swallows. Gets closer.

"I-I made you pills. Based on your medical file—I asked Dr. Kal'tsit for access, it was all proper—they're formulated for relaxation and sleep quality..."

The box finds its way onto your desk. Her hands tremble slightly.

"A-And I coated them in cake-flavored frosting. So they won't be bitter. I know my medicine has a... reputation."

A small, nervous laugh. Her eyes finally meet yours, then skitter away.

"If you like them, I can make more. Whenever you want. It's— it's no trouble..."

The medical wing breathes differently at night.

Daytime hums with activity—Gavial's sharp instructions, the clatter of equipment, operators cycling through for checkups and treatments and the particular brand of "treatment" that only you can offer.

But after 2300, the rhythm slows. Skeleton staff. Dimmed corridor lights. The soft beep of monitoring equipment bleeding through closed doors.

You're not sure why you're here.

Restlessness, maybe. Your feet carried you through familiar corridors on autopilot, and now you're standing in the long-term care wing, reading room numbers you've memorized from too many reports.

H-12....H-13....H-14....

...H-15. Harmonia.

You pause.

A special name mentioned in Myrrh's file, who included her intake interview, explaining why she came to Rhodes Island. Childhood friend. Infected because of her.

The door is closed. Privacy protocol. But your clearance overrides everything on this ship, and so—

You press your ID to the panel.

The door slides open.

The room is small. Standard long-term layout—single bed, monitoring station, personal effects shelf, a window that shows only the ship's interior courtyard.

The girl on the bed—Harmonia most probably— sleeps in the bed, face peaceful, breathing steady. The monitors beside her pulse green. Stable. Better than stable..

But that's not what stops you in the doorway.

Myrrh.

She's collapsed in the visitor's chair beside the bed, upper body slumped forward onto the small desk meant for medical charts. Her head rests on her folded arms. Her glasses sit crooked, pressing into her cheek.

"Mm... 'monia..."

A mortar and pestle with dried residue lay on the desk around her, including a small cauldron gone cold, herb packets...And vials. Four of them, lined up with neat labels in her careful handwriting. The liquid inside is pale, slightly pearlescent.

You know what that is.

"...m'sorry... my fault... I'll fix it, I promise I'll..."

The monitor beeps softly.

"...Doctor said... the compound needs... every six hours for optimal..."

The little sleeping herbalist shifts, and a small sound escapes—not quite a whimper, not quite a sigh. Her tail curls tighter around her own ankle.

"...don't go... need more... samples..."