Chapter Text
And then you're sailing through space, you don't know up from down,
And you feel a little strange, from all that spinning 'round...
Ocean is the first to walk into my booth. Eager to hear her fortune. I have nothing to tell her of the future apart from my deep hope that I will be able to change it. "Ocean O'Connell Rosenberg." She looks up, a little uncertain as to whether I'm supposed to know her name. "You are on a different level completely to your classmates, at least, in your own mind you are. Your need to be the best is holding you back more than you realise. You will find freedom in letting yourself be the same as your imperfect friends, if you have the courage to stoop to their level."
Ocean feels attacked. She is not wrong to feel that way. But she tries to laugh it off. "What are you talking about?"
There is no helping those who do not want to be helped; I offer her no more personal advice. "Your lucky number is zero," I tell her. And then, a final warning, "Do not ride the cyclone."
Ocean sputters at me helplessly for a moment, and then leaves the booth.
"How was it?" asks Noel casually.
"He..." Ocean is frowning, not daring to explain the details of her encounter to the other children. "He gave me a lucky number. It was weird."
"What number?" asks Constance.
"Zero." She scoffs. "Is that even a real number?"
"The robot must be just going through the numbers," says Noel. "Next person will get a one. Then two. And so on."
"Maybe it's all zeroes," suggests Savannah, in ASL that the others only half pay attention to. "Could be a malfunction. Don't see why they'd have zero as an option unless it was an error."
"Whatever," says Noel. "I'm going in." He enters the booth, expecting just a number, possibly a zero, probably a one. He does not expect me to give him advice.
"Noel Gruber," I begin, shocking him. "You live in fear of both others and yourself. You shut people out because you don't know how to express your feelings, but you don't realise that the people you're afraid of are people with their own complex emotions who may be struggling with the same issues you are. If you stop perceiving everyone as a threat, you will find it easier to be yourself."
Noel blinks. "What?" Processing all of this at once is simply asking for more introspective skills than he can currently spare. That's okay.
"Your lucky number is two," I continue, and Noel's eyes widen just slightly. "Do not ride the cyclone."
Noel is in a hurry to exit the booth but nobody is in any hurry to replace him. Constance and Savannah have both been, mentally if not physically, unceremoniously shoved to the side until all of the important students have had their turn; Misha is on his phone, slightly nervous, trying to play it cool and only just managing. The phone is eventually snatched from his hands by a girl who insists he needs to get back into the real world and his arms shake with the supressed urge to wrestle it back off her in a decidedly unfair fight. Glaring, he enters the booth.
"Misha Bachynskyi." Misha looks up at me, glaring, too angry to really be taken off guard. "You are angry, and you're not wrong to be. You feel everything very deeply, and it causes you to act on impulse. But if you can learn to reign yourself in, and wait for your emotions to pass before acting, you will find your relationships improve." That gets his attention enough for him to stop glaring. "Your lucky number is forty; do not ride the cyclone."
Misha stares at me, for just a few seconds. Then he remembers that Ocean has his phone and rushes out to take it back off her. Ocean gives it up with no resistance now that she's forced him to participate in some way, but not without another lecture on how he uses his phone far too much. Misha ignores her to check his lock screen for notifications and his heart rate increases when he finds none.
Savannah realises that now, one of two things is going to happen. Either the group is going to move on from the fortune telling without a thought as to whether she'd want to participate, or she's going to be unceremoniously pushed into the booth with no regard for her personal space or autonomy, and have Ocean standing over her shoulders while her fortune is told. Neither of these options are at all desirable, so Savannah decides to take the risk of being left behind if the others simply forget she's part of the group. She enters my booth.
"Savannah Potts." Her eyes are wider than the other children. There is, however unlikely, some explanation for a robot being programmed to know the legal names of students whose arrivals were booked in advance; knowing a name that she's never been called aloud is much more improbable. "You've retreated to the safety of your own mind, haven't you? But the outside world can be made safe too. If only you have the courage to treat it as a real thing that you can change." She's only listening because she's in shock; if I had called her Ricky, her head would be in Zolar. "Your lucky number is forty-two. Do not ride the cyclone."
Savannah doesn't feel like she can leave an interaction like that without saying anything but she doesn't have a clue what to say. She isn't even sure if she can expect me to understand ASL, or to understand any language, really - she would assume my speech is all thoroughly pre-programmed if not for my inexplicable knowledge of her name. And before she can even begin to collect her thoughts and come up with a response, Noel enters the booth just behind her, "What's the hold-up, Ricky? The others are talking about moving on."
Rolling her eyes, Savannah twists her body to be able to face Noel. "Zoned out. I'll come now, let me out." Noel takes a few steps back so he isn't blocking her wheelchair's path.
Nobody thinks to ask Constance if she wants to hear her fortune. The children move on.
A fifth child enters my booth some minutes later. Braided hair, St Cassian's uniform - she is part of the choir, technically, though not in practice. She has not attended a single session; she has put her name on a list and her parents' signatures on a form specifically so she can attend this fair, and then she has promptly forgotten about the whole singing part of being in a choir. She makes an effort to stay away from the other children, just so that nobody will ask her who she is and why she's here.
"Penny Lamb," I say to her. It's hard to find advice for this child. Perhaps it was truly just bad circumstance that led to her time in the warehouse before I went back to change the timeline. Eventually I settle on, "Don't be a stranger. Let people know you. Your lucky number is seventeen. Do not ride the cyclone." She maybe half pays attention, being generous. I take what I can get.
It is uncomfortably long - over an hour - before the final child enters my booth. There is no doubt in my mind as to why she originally slipped away from the group, or what she did before coming to me. Even so, I maintain my neutral composure: "Constance Blackwood. There's nothing wrong with being the nicest girl in town, and in time you'll understand that, but it's okay to stand up for yourself, too. You don't have to keep 'nice Constance' and 'angry Constance' so separate." Constance frowns at me, perplexed. "Your lucky number is thirty-nine. Do not ride the cyclone."
A shrill, nasally voice is yelling orders. Largely, she is being ignored.
A girl in braided pigtails makes eye contact with her, briefly. She is wearing the same school uniform, but Ocean does not recognise her; she is not part of the same choir in any way that matters. She signed on, officially, because she heard about the Fall Fair excursion; she's been bobbing and weaving in and out of the crowd, disappearing when necessary, staying with the choir enough to justify her being there but not enough that she would have to perform with her classmates or prompt them to ask who she is. She makes eye contact with Ocean. She bobs back into the crowd, away from them.
Nobody else pays Ocean much attention - one boy on his phone, the other two staring off into space. Just as Ocean begins to falter - fear of being ignored gripping hold of her - her saviour approaches the group of four. "Hey!" She attempts a friendly smile, and it looks closer to a grimace. "Sorry for disappearing."
Relief floods Ocean's face - she quickly disguises it with a condescending glare at her friend. "Constance? Where have you been?"
"Ah, I was - I was just in the bathroom!" Constance squeaks it out. Ocean's eyes continue to scrutinize her; she wilts under the pressure, paralysed for a moment, and then scurries away from Ocean, seeking comfort elsewhere.
Ocean is still trying to corral the group, and only one of them has put their phone away. Constance catches a boy staring at something in the distance, failing to respond to Ocean's words; she grabs his arm, to get his attention, and he hisses at her. "Careful," he snaps, pulling away. "I've got an arm injury."
Constance frowns. "Oh, what happened?"
The boy looks at his nails. "I was at Ricky's house and one of his cats viciously attacked me. I was scratched badly." He rolls his eyes for effect. "Fucking furries."
"Oh, um, I'm sorry." She clears her throat. "Ocean's trying to say something."
"I know," deadpans Noel. "I've been trying not to listen." But even so, he relents, turning his attention to Ocean, and she lights up at the recognition.
Three-quarters of the choir are now listening to her, so she moves onto the fourth. "Ricky!" A fourth girl, a few feet away, in a wheelchair; her name is not Ricky, and she has known it is not her name for many years now, but Ocean does not know that, and Savannah has made no attempt to tell her her real name. "Ricky!" Savannah fails to respond - not due to a refusal to answer to a name that isn't hers, not due to any hearing problem, but simply because her head is in the clouds. "Ricky!"
Ocean decides she has had enough; she grabs Savannah's chair and spins it around, forcing her to face the rest of the choir. When she notices Savannah's confused and shocked flailing, she crouches down to be at eye level with her, and says, "You need to look at people who are talking to you, Ricky."
Savannah responds, in ASL, with "Fuck you." Ocean misreads the sign just slightly and thinks she is being thanked, that she is acting as an oasis in the desert that must be Savannah's life; nobody corrects her.
"I have an announcement!" yells Ocean proudly, now satisfied that everyone is listening to her. She clears her throat. "Since we've had such a great performance, and since I'm so thankful for all of you being here, I decided to get us all cake!" She reaches into her bag, and pulls out a plastic-wrapped packet in bright colours, with text on the packaging clearly reading 90 CALORIE BIRTHDAY CAKES - 5 PACK. "I hope you all enjoy!" Constance wilts, certain that this is directed at her. Nobody tells Ocean she is being passive aggressive.
Noel, however, comes close. "Oh, I love food without calories." He takes one of the pre-packaged """cakes""" and begins wrestling with the plastic. "Do you have some water that won't hydrate me to wash it down with?" Ocean ignores him.
Misha helps Savannah with the plastic packaging, and hands her the """cake""". "Sorry about Ocean," he mutters. "If you want, I can punch her the next time she does that."
Savannah's eyes widen. "You don't have to do that."
"I've got your back, kid." But then Misha's phone buzzes, and consequently dominates his attention.
Savannah turns to Noel, who has gone back to staring off into the middle distance. Savannah follows his gaze and sees that he's staring at a ride, off in the distance. It doesn't even look like a ride he'd want to go on, but he's staring at it. Savannah grabs his arm to get his attention, and he hisses and pulls away. "Careful. I've got an arm injury."
"Sorry," signs Savannah, surprised. "What happened?"
Noel looks at his nails. They're tinted black with fading paint. "Burned myself at work," he says simply. Savannah drops the subject; she knows Noel hates talking about his work.
"Can you do me a favour?"
Noel raises an eyebrow. "Depends what it is."
"I want to put spikes on my wheelchair."
Noel considers this briefly, then lowers his voice. "Can I say the C slur if I censor it to just the letter C?"
Savannah blinks. Her hands stutter confusedly in a way best translated as "uh". "I guess so?"
"Alright." He clears his throat. "Why are you trying to invent C-Punk for people with no fashion sense?"
That manages to get a snicker out of Savannah. Then she glances sideways, checking that Ocean isn't looking at her closely enough to read her hands. "No, I - I want to make it harder for O-C-E-A-N to move me without my consent."
Noel grimaces. "Ah." He lowers his voice, glancing over his shoulder to check Ocean isn't eavesdropping. "Yeah, she ... She can be really, ahem. Like that. You know." He draws in a deep breath. "I can probably find some time to help you with that, yeah. Misha should have your back in the meantime."
Misha, currently, is typing something on his phone, increasingly frantic. He doesn't look up when Ocean clears her throat loudly. "Alright, everyone!" Most of the choir turns to face her. "Since all of us have gotten to take a turn choosing which ride to go on today..." Constance, who hasn't chosen a ride, opens her mouth to protest, then gives up. "...I think it's time for us to go on one final ride before we end off the day trip!"
Noel starts staring again - his eyes become fixed on that ride in the middle distance. Savannah follows his gaze, and becomes wholly mentally occupied by her fantasy centered around catgirls in space. Noel manages to avoid zoning out similarly, snapping himself out of the daze just in time to say, "We should go on that one." In a quieter voice, he mutters, "Looks dangerous. If we die it'll be quick and painless, but all over the news." Savannah hears the second part and gives him a look that asks him if he's fucking insane. "I'm joking. I'm joking!"
Ocean opens her mouth, eager to take credit for Noel's idea, but Noel elbows her in the ribs to pre-emptively shut her up because Savannah is trying to say something that will be all too easily drowned out. "That ride looks dangerous. The fortune telling robot told me not to go on it."
Ocean's eyes widen. "Huh. Now that you mention it, he said that to me too."
"And me," says Noel, frowning. "Constance? Did the robot tell you that?"
"...Yeah," Constance admits, quickly giving up on the idea of getting to choose her favourite ride even indirectly. "We should, um. We should look through a list of rides and pick one together." She knows deep down that this will translate to Ocean picking one. She doesn't have it in her to try to prevent that.
A girl with braided hair walks past the group - not known as part of the choir, yet wearing a St Cassian's uniform. Nobody notices her except Savannah, who is now more in tune with her environment than she usually is. While Noel is still pondering how to interpret my warning, while Misha is on his phone, while Ocean is picking a ride with Constance ostensibly helping - Savannah slips away. Unnoticed.
Noel shifts his weight from foot to foot, briefly, and then decides to bite the bullet - he knows he won't be satisfied without a confirmation that every child has received the same warning. He approaches Misha. But Misha is staring at his phone once more, typing and deleting and rephrasing and deleting the same message repeatedly as his breathing grows more and more frantic, and all it takes is Noel's tap on the shoulder for him to throw up his hands in frustration and yell, "Fuck off!" Noel flinches, takes a step back, and wonders if maybe trying to approach Misha is flying a little too close to the sun.
Then, Noel stops, and asks himself what sort of stress he would have to be under in order to scream at the first person to tap his shoulder, and comes to the conclusion that anyone under that sort of stress probably needs someone to talk to. He would prefer to get Constance to help, she's better with these things, but Constance is with Ocean and Noel has a feeling getting Ocean involved would be a bad idea. So as Misha's breathing grows more and more frantic, he takes a deep breath, and approaches him himself, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, dude, are you okay?"
It takes Penny a long time to notice she is being followed; she is followed by someone who appears just as invisible as she does, only without intending to be. Savannah does not move silently - she has never had to learn how - but Penny has been at St Cassian's long enough for it to simply become white noise. You automatically ignore the kid in the wheelchair, just like you automatically ignore the crying coming from bathroom stalls and the students that get beaten violently by bullies.
When she does realise she's being followed, she swivels around to see Savannah staring up at her, one eyebrow raised as though asking her a question. Penny's heart skips a beat. "Oh. Hey. You're..." Savannah's deadname is on the tip of her tongue but doesn't quite make it to the front of her mind. "...that kid from choir." It's so obvious what differentiates her from the other choir students, what singular trait has made her stick out in this girl's memory, that Savannah almost wishes she would just call her an ableist slur and be done with it.
"You're not in choir," she signs, frowning. "What are you doing here?"
Penny blinks at her. "Oh, um, I'm sorry, I can't understand that." She frowns. "Uh, can you hear me?" Despite Savannah's frantic nod, Penny takes a deep breath in a way that makes it clear she's about to talk unnecessarily loudly to compensate for a communication issue that doesn't exist. "Can you hear me? Do you understand me?" Savannah ignores her and focuses on taking her phone out of her pocket.
"I can't talk out loud but I can hear you just fine." A feminine, synthesised voice from a text-to-speech app; Savannah's phone speakers are set to maximum volume but Penny still has to strain her ears to make out the words. "What are you doing here? You're not in choir."
"I, aha... I technically am." A blush creeps into Penny's cheeks. "I signed up so I could come to the fair. I don't sing. I shouldn't be here, so don't tell anyone, okay?" She grins hopefully, then frowns. "Wait, what are you doing here?"
Savannah shrugs as she types up a response on her phone. "I'm in the choir."
Penny blinks. "But you can't sing?" Savannah just shrugs again in response. "I guess that makes sense, that you can technically be in choir without actually singing. I can't sing either. I mean, I can, but I'm no good at it. See-" She clears her throat. "Uranium, Uranium, that's our town, our friendly town..." She sings Ocean's part, uncertainly and with a flimsy understanding of the melody but in a voice so high and loud and powerful that Savannah feels she's being physically blown away. "See? I can't sing!"
She laughs. Savannah just stares at her.
"So, um, don't tell anybody I'm here, okay?" She giggles again and it sounds forced. "I don't want them to make me actually, like, go to choir practice and sing and stuff." Savannah decides she ought to be getting back to the group anyway.
And you feel a little strange, from all that spinning 'round,
Oh, no, no, we will never leave our town.