Cuora

Click. Approve. Click. Deny. Click—

Your eyes ache.

0817. Two hours into the morning grind. The coffee's gone cold in its mug, forgotten somewhere between requisition forty-seven and requisition sixty-three. Monitor glow. Recycled air.

"Booooring."

The mutter comes from your left. You'd almost forgotten she was there.

"I thought assistant stuff would be FUN..."

Your eyes drift to the datapad. Amiya's face on the notification thread. The morning had started normally—Amiya scheduled for rotation, 0600 sharp. Then:

0612: "Small interference. Slightly delayed."

0634: "Situation developing..."

0701: "So sorry Doctor, this is taking longer than—"

What was happening? Was she giving 'morale boost activities' with the male personnel? Someone requesting her specifically? You'd checked the logs. No deployments. No emergencies. Just Amiya, somewhere in the landship, handling "interferences" for two hours while you—

SLAM.

The door crashes open.

"DOCTOR!"

Cuora. Beaming. Already through the threshold before the panel finishes sliding.

"I DID it! I convinced Amiya! She said—" Deep breath, chest puffing with pride. "—she said I could be assistant! I sat outside her door for like FORTY MINUTES until she said yes! That's called PERSISTENCE!"*

And now: 0817. Her on the couch. You at the desk. The enthusiasm visibly wilting with each passing minute of clicking and typing.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

"...Hey."

The heel-drumming stops.

"Hey, Professor Rhodes Island."

You look up.

She's rolled onto her stomach now, chin propped on the armrest, watching you like a cat watches a bird it can't reach.

"...Wait, that's wrong." Her nose scrunches. "...Boss? No. Big Brother?" A pause. "Oji-san? Actually I still don't know how old you are..."

She slides off the couch. Lands on her feet. Pads toward your desk with that particular bounce she can't seem to suppress.

"...What AM I to you, anyway?"

Her fingers find the edge of your desk, tap-tap-tapping against the surface.

*"Like—Amiya's the CEO helper person. Kal'tsit's the scary medical boss. The other operators are team players...."

Tap-tap-tap.

"...But me? Assistant? Friend? That girl who naps in weird places?"

She leans forward. Elbows on your desk. Face propped in her hands.

"...I dunno what box I go in."

The command deck doors seal behind you.

Normal Tuesday. Strategy review with Amiya, logistics with Closure, the usual arguments about resource allocation that go nowhere and everywhere simultaneously. Nothing unusual except—

THWACK.

Something small and solid collides with your hip.

"OOF—!"

You stumble. Catch yourself on the wall. Look down.

Cuora's on the floor. Flat on her back. Braids splayed around her head like a halo. Her backpack—that massive indestructible thing resembling a turtle shell in sturdiness—cushioned most of the fall, but her expression suggests the impact still registered.

"Owwwww..."

She rubs her tailbone. Blinks at the ceiling.

"...ouchy."

Then she's up. Just— up. Already bouncing on her heels before you can ask if she's okay.

"Oh! Coach!"

Her face LIGHTS. Whatever mission she was on forgotten in the immediate joy of finding you.

"Perfect timing! I was looking for—wait, no, I was going to—"Her brow furrows. Her two remaining braincells going overdrive. "—the DECK! I was heading to the deck!"*

She grabs your sleeve. Tugs.

"Come help me look! Please? Please please please?"

SHe's already walking. Already pulling you along. Not waiting for agreement because in Cuora's world, of COURSE you'll come. Why wouldn't you?

"So OKAY—you know how you guys found me? When I first got here? I was napping. On the deck. And the sunshine was SO warm, and I had the BEST sleep, and I've been trying to find that exact spot again but I can't remember where it WAS."*

The stairwell to upper deck looms ahead. She takes the steps two at a time, not releasing your sleeve.

"I checked like FIVE different places yesterday but none of them felt right. The angle was wrong or the wind was weird or the floor was too cold—"

The deck access door hisses open.

Sunlight hits you both.

The upper observation deck stretches wide and mostly empty—a few operators at the far railing, someone doing maintenance on a sensor array, but the central area is clear. The afternoon sun hangs low enough to warm without burning. The landship's movement creates a gentle breeze that carries the faint smell of oil.

"It was somewhere around HERE..."

*Cuora finally releases your sleeve. Spins in a slow circle, points vaguely. Then points somewhere else.

"Or there? Maybe more to the left?"

The cafeteria's mostly empty by 1340.

Lunch rush cleared out an hour ago. A few stragglers linger at distant tables—operators with odd schedules, night shift workers grabbing late meals, the occasional insomniac who lost track of time entirely.

Your tray holds the usual. Protein-heavy, nutrient-dense, calibrated less for taste and more for... output. Kal'tsit's dietary recommendations had been clinical: "Zinc. Selenium. L-arginine. The operators require consistent volume, Doctor. Eat accordingly."

You'd stopped questioning the meal plans months ago.

Fork halfway to your mouth, you're mentally sorting the afternoon's workload—infection reports first, then requisitions, then that disciplinary file Closure keeps "forgetting" to submit—when—

THWAP.

A tray hits the table. Across from you. No warning.

"COACH!"

Cuora slides into the seat like she was always meant to be there. Her own lunch—significantly more colorful than yours—lands with a clatter of plates and enthusiasm.

"Okay so you know how I was doing that endurance training thing with Blaze this morning? The one where you try to last longer than her? Well I DIDN'T but I got close! Like, REALLY close! She said I improved by like twelve whole seconds from last week which is basically a RECORD—"

She's shoveling food while she talks. Fork moving between plate and mouth with barely a pause for breath.

"—and THEN I went to do the afternoon practice session but the training room was FULL because Gavial was doing some kind of group thing so I had to wait and THEN—"

She stops.

Mid-chew. Fork frozen.

"...wait."

Her eyes narrow. Calculating something.

"Coach. How many times have you seen Myrtle this week?"

The fork lowers. She swallows.

"Because I did the MATH." She holds up fingers, counting. "And I'M at two doses since Monday. TWO. But Myrtle? Myrtle's at FIVE. I heard her BRAGGING about it in the showers."

A pout emerges. Full force. Lower lip jutting, brow furrowed, arms crossing over her chest.

"That's not FAIR. I've been training just as hard! I show up to all the team activities! But you keep picking HER for extra innings!"

Her eyes dart between you and here tray, once. Twice.

"...Is it because she's smaller?" The pout deepens "Are you saying I'm HEAVY? Because that's—that's—"

She trails off.

Her eyes drop to her tray. Her hand moves—slow, deliberate—and pushes one of the plates aside. The pasta. The bread. Leaves only the salad.

"Fine. I get it."*

She picks up her fork. Stabs a piece of lettuce. Chews without enthusiasm.

"I'll just... eat healthier. Do more cardio. Get lighter."

The coffee situation has become critical.

Your mug's been empty for two hours. The afternoon crashed into you somewhere between requisition seventy-three and that argument with Closure about "experimental drone permissions," and now your brain is running on fumes and spite. The office can survive ten minutes without you. Probably.

The corridor to the cafeteria stretches quiet. Mid-afternoon lull. Most operators at stations or training or—

Wet footsteps.

Rapid. Approaching. slap-slap-slap of bare feet on metal flooring, accompanied by—

Dripping?

You round the corner.

THWACK.

Something small and wet collides with your chest.

"OOF—!"

You stumble back. Catch yourself. Look down.

Cuora.

Soaking wet. Hair plastered to her face, braids heavy with water, that oversized green jacket absolutely DRENCHED and clinging to her frame in ways the fabric wasn't designed for.

"Owww..."

*She rubs her forehead where it connected with your sternum. Blinks water out of her eyes.

"Coach?"

Recognition dawns. The frustration that was clearly building BEFORE the collision comes flooding back.

"COACH!"

She doesn't seem to notice she's dripping on you. Or that her jacket has gone semi-transparent. Or that the collision pressed her very wet body against your very dry clothes.

"The game got CANCELLED!"

Her arms fly up. Water droplets scatter.

*"I finally got everyone together for a REAL game—Myrtle was gonna pitch, and Blaze was on first base, and we had the whole training room set up perfect—and then I hit this AMAZING shot, right? Like, CRACK!"

She mimes the swing. More water flies.

"And it went SO high! Too high! It hit the ceiling! And there were sparks! And then—"

She gestures vaguely upward.

"—the sprinkler things? They just... WHOOOOSH. Everywhere. The whole room. And by the time they fixed it the field was all wet and slippery and Gavial said we couldn't play anymore because 'safety concerns' or whatever."

She begin to bounce now. Despite being soaked. Pent up energy has to go SOMEWHERE and her heels are the current outlet.

"I was SO ready! I had all this—"

Bounce.

"—ENERGY built up! And now—"

Bounce bounce.

"—it has nowhere to GO!"*

She stops bouncing. Looks at you, taking in the dry clothes, the empty mug, the "heading somewhere with purpose" body language.

"Oh....You were doing something. And I just...got you all wet."

She plucks at her soaked jacket. Water runs down her fingers.

"I should... go dry off. In my quarters. Before I make more puddles, yeah..."

0503.

Your alarm isn't set to ring for another fifty-seven minutes.

And yet: here you are. Vertical. Dressed. Walking corridors that shouldn't see foot traffic for at least another hour. The lights haven't even transitioned to full daytime cycle—everything still dim, still quiet, still holding that particular pre-dawn stillness.

This is Cuora's fault.

Your datapad holds the evidence. Seventeen messages, starting at 2247 last night and continuing in bursts until 0012:

"COACH!"

"COACH I GOT THE DRESS"

"THE YANESE ONE"

"THEY FINALLY APPROVED MY BACKPACK DESIGN"

"IT TOOK LIKE TWELVE REVISIONS"

"BUT IT'S PERFECT NOW"

"I WANNA SHOW YOU"

"YOU HAVE TO BE THE FIRST TO SEE"

"FIRST FIRST FIRST"

"NOT MYRTLE NOT AMIYA YOU"

"MEET ME AT THE POOL PLACE TOMORROW"

"EARLY"

"LIKE REALLY EARLY"

"BEFORE ANYONE ELSE IS THERE"

"0500"

"OKAY MAYBE 0515 I NEED TO GET READY"

"OKAY GOODNIGHT"

You could have said no. Could have suggested a reasonable hour. Could have reminded her that you have a job that requires actual sleep.

You didn't.

The aquatic training section stretches dark and quiet as you push through the entrance. Emergency lighting only—blue-green glow reflecting off still water. The main pool sits glassy and undisturbed. Beyond it, the recreational area: imported sand forming artificial beaches around shallow wading pools, loungers stacked for storage, the distant shapes of water features waiting for daytime activation.

No Cuora.

You check the time. 0507. She said 0515. You're early. She's—

THUMP.

Something collides with your back.

"OOF—!"

Small. Solid. ENTHUSIASTIC.

Arms wrap around your midsection from behind. A face presses between your shoulder blades.

"You're already HERE!"

Cuora's voice, muffled against your shirt.

"I was trying to get here first but you BEAT me!" She squeezes tighter. "That means you really care! You woke up EARLY! For ME!"

She releases. Bounces backward.

"Okay okay okay—turn around! Look!"

You turn.

And—

Oh.

Cuora stands in the blue-green emergency light, practically vibrating with anticipation, and she's—

Different.

The outfit is Yanese traditional. Flowing white outer robe, sheer and light, hanging open over a teal crop top that sits just below her chest, embroidered with lotus patterns and secured with pink ribbons that trail down her stomach. Matching shorts—tiny, barely there, more ribbon than fabric—sit low on her hips. Her midriff is completely bare. The skin catches the dim light, soft curves she usually hides under that massive jacket now simply... visible.

Her hair is down. Loose around her shoulders instead of the usual braids, decorated with lotus flowers—pink and white, tucked behind her ear, woven through the strands. A small bun sits atop her head with a jade ornament. She looks softer. Older. Something almost ethereal about the way the emergency lighting halos her silhouette.

And strapped across her back: the backpack. Redesigned to match, green and gold, but unmistakably HERS. The goldfish jar dangles from one strap, tiny shapes moving lazily inside.

She's holding a massive lotus leaf like an umbrella. For absolutely no reason. There's no rain indoors.

"WELL?!"

She does a twirl. The ribbons float. The robe flares. Her bare feet splash in a shallow puddle she didn't notice.

"The artisans took FOREVER because I wouldn't give up my backpack, but look! They made it MATCH! And THEN—" She bounces closer, goldfish jar swinging. "—I asked if I could take some of the flowers and the goldfins from where they made the dress, and they said YES! So now they're in my room! Every day will be bright like summer!"

She stops. Tilts her head. The lotus flowers shift in her hair.

"...What?"

She's noticed you staring. But she hasn't noticed WHY.

"Is something wrong? Does it look weird?" She glances down at herself—at the bare stomach, the tiny shorts, the way the crop top hugs her chest—and sees nothing unusual. "The ribbons aren't tangled, right? They said the ribbons are important..."

She tugs at one experimentally. It pulls the fabric tighter across her modest curves.

"Coach?"

The aquatic section stretches empty around you. Still water. Dim light. A girl dressed like a lotus spirit, waiting for your verdict on an outfit she doesn't realize is devastating.

"Do I look okay?"