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Even four hundred years later, the Keplers are only possible to be reached visually through intergalactic lenses; meanwhile Candidate I circling within the Alpha Centauri binary system proves to be uninhabitable, at least not without complete reliance on plant output—scorched sand, ruled by an alien insectoid life form ten times more tenacious than their Earth counterparts, and a measly several hundred thousand stragglers, planetlocked on an uninviting alphacentaurian surface.
There are, however, with the tercentennial advance of human technology, planets discovered to be closer and more hospitable than theorized prior to the launch of the original project SEEDS 01: Projects 04 through 07 yield promise in adapting to Proxima Centauri's little dwarf sun, and by Project 027 plant warping has passed into tentative experimentation. A planet that took two hundred years to reach could now be accessed within eight months.
Proxima Centauri B takes eleven days to complete a solar year. Unlike Gunsmoke, B has three visible suns in the daylight half of the heavens—Proxima herself and the distant twins, tiny dots, clearly visible despite the glare of Proxima's eye. B's sun is a flare star—the atmosphere is thin, borderline stripped, and its gravity is loose, and the stars are bright and opulent on the everdark side of the body. B is, among other things, a connecting terminal for married flights between Gunsmoke and Earth. It is within the scope of probability that, depending on Stryfe's composure, this could also become Proxima Centauri B's first ever wedding reception.
"How, how do I look?"
"Like you're losing your shit—Jesus, rookie, just stop," Roberto grunts, swatting away Stryfe's nervous hands from the bodice lace. His ex-coworker glares at him then glares at the reflection in the mirror, reaching to fiddle with the poor flowerpiece on her head again. It's a thin shimmery metal Roberto never bothered to remember the chemical makeup of, and it's also delicate and ostensibly one of a kind. He slaps her on the wrist with a grumble and straightens her veil. It's really a mother's job to be doing these things but Stryfe's mother is already sick from warp medication and Meryl wants her well-rested before the jump. "Suck it up, Ms. Bride."
"I think I'm gonna be sick," says Stryfe testily and leans over the sink.
"Absolutely not," Roberto frowns, pulling her back up, "Leitner has her hands full of runny noses and getting all of the priest's brats vaxxed—and there's no way I'm putting back all of that shmoozy doozy fancy makeup back on your face." The way Meryl has managed to work herself into a froth is nothing short of staggeringly Stryfe-like—handled the end of the world like a champ with a few breakdowns here and there, hunted the planet's most notorious figure into retirement, discovered dead men walking, and now she's getting anxious over the happiest moment of her life. It's both a shock and a relief she hasn't drunken herself into a stupor by this point—but then again she isn't Roberto, and this marriage isn't Roberto's.
"You're shit at this," Meryl sulks loudly and complains louder at Roberto's smirk—at least she's flushed instead of green now. "I want Vash—I'll make him walk me instead of you."
"Am I promoted to Milly's best man then? I'll take it."
"I'm promoting you to below average man," Stryfe grouses, "Worst man, if you don't stop antagonizing me right before my wedding."
"Can't believe you'd wish someone so horrible on your fiancée."
"I'm firing you. Vash can walk both of us instead."
"You can't fire me—I'm your boss. And Stampede still hasn't gotten his glitzy arm back for you to hang off him like a sapphic monkey."
"You—utter—this is my wedding. I call the shots. Also I don't even work for you anymore."
"Then I guess I'll just take this camera and go fuck myself," says Roberto cheerfully and watches Meryl go through a series of increasingly interesting facial expressions until he can't help himself. "Newbie—it's fine to get cold feet. What's not fine is ruining your dress by getting sick over nothing."
"It's not—nothing!" Meryl whines at the reflection because it really is everything, actually, it's the most important event of Meryl's entire twenty four years of existence, dammit, she went through hell and high tide and carved this out for herself, and she just can't calm down.
The most interesting thing about life, is that there's always a morning after. There was, after all, a morning after the apocalypse on Earth four hundred years ago, a morning after the SEEDS were launched into the oblique vastness of space; a morning, even, after the Big Fall.
The morning after No Man's Land second most horrible no good very bad day in recorded history held nothing but radio silence and the stark, breathtaking fright that comes commonly after mass extinction events. The following morning, the following days, weeks, months: pieces coming together in broken, sickled plaits and puzzle bits with broken edges, above—the Earth ships, below—people buried, everywhere—people gone and people evacuated, people saved and lost. Straight ahead—tomorrows after tomorrows that don't stop, never stop, pieces of Meryl's life, falling into places in ways she would never expect them to.
Roberto: still kicking.
Vash: still wanted for sums twice the planet's entire economy.
Wolfwood— "Is she always like this?"
"Shut up," Meryl hisses at him, not at all hysterically, "shut up, shut upshutup."
Wolfwood: grinning and alive, if not particularly well. The man's gone silver gray and developed several concurrent heart conditions and he won't be recovering any of his former resilience in the near future. This does nothing to dampen the stink of his insufferable spirit, god bless the guy.
By the makeshift altar, Wolfwood is decked out as formally as a priest can afford to in a transit journey between three planets and when Meryl glares at him he holds the Bible up, between his face and the entirety of their friends and family peering at them in various shades of anticipation, wonder and worry, just for her to see his expression. "Cheer up, shortstack," he offers from behind the book with that damned twinkle in his eyes, like Meryl is the most amusing thing the universe has to offer since rising from the grave specifically to cause Vash a heart attack. "God sayeth—you look constipated as hell."
"God says you look stupid," she reaches for the book to give him a good whacking with it because this is her wedding and the men in her acquaintance are determined to ruin her life or break her heart or be nasty and ugly characters, check all of the above, would'ya? "And your robe looks—stupid. You're getting demoted to stupid man in a stupid robe."
"It's called a cassock," Wolfwood says sweetly, holding the gospels from Meryl's violent hands.
"That's the second demotion today," Roberto muses behind her.
"I'll bury you both into the cold, hard ground," Meryl seethes, "with sand between your toes. Sand up your ass."
"Been there," Wolfwood says loftily because that's just the kind of manchild he is, and also the kind of life he led, "done that, done with that. Come up with sum'n that can actually keep me down, then we'll talk."
Meryl is willing to do just that but he's not looking at her—he's all straight lines and proper posture and clasped hands suddenly and whatever he's seeing at the end of the room makes his eyes softly fond over his damned sunglasses.
The entire air of the room shifts, a hush broken only by the vibrations of the space station and the hum of the curious plants and oh jeez the plants are watching. Meryl squeezes her eyes shut and god, god, god—it's happening, it's really happening, it's—everything she's ever wanted, it's the best decision of her life so why, why is her heart clamouring out of her ribcage, rabbit paced and what if, what if sheisn'tgoodenough— "Newbie," Roberto's hand is steady on her shoulder.
"Ah," Meryl shudders out, unscrewed corks, except she's not a broken bottle, she's just getting married. The hand on her shoulder tightens.
Roberto's eyes are crinkled when she looks, before they shift behind her. "Eyes on the prize, love." Meryl turns.
Vash has wrinkles under his eyes and his hair is wilted black—he's never stopped glowing around the edges, ever since he ran out of power, and when he smiles at her his crow's feet crinkle. There's something encouraging, and terribly fragile in the shape of his mouth, but it doesn't register once he takes the turn.
Meryl has known Milly for years: Milly, her naïve junior partner after Roberto retired from his crippling shoulder injury, Milly and her overextended family of many, Milly with her military training, with her soft heart face and her careful consideration, not naïve at all. Milly and her eyes—doe-like and gold-rimmed, her taffy pink lipstick and the mascara Meryl got for her birthday; her wisdom and painfully unobtrusive kindness, folded into the angle of her brows. The way she moves herself, her hands, her stride and tone, how she sits at rest and shouts in joy and rare anger, all of it handsome and endearing. The tilt of the corners of her mouth when she thinks no one's looking, her bold, unrestrained empathy even when she hurts hard enough to crack, Milly, there when Meryl turns—always. She's lost weight—everyone has since food is a scarcity until they reach Earth. The catastrophes of the last months on No Man's Land are lasting enough that they will take decades, centuries perhaps to override, if not erase.
But she is beautiful when she's hunched over a desk working; she's beautiful when she cleans her guns, when she's exhausted, when she's having the worst day of their lives, when the world is ending around them.
On their wedding day Milly looks devastating. Even with her collarbones just on the side of pronounced and the bones on her wrists prominent, the ends of her hair cut because the stress sickled some of her lovely locks—Meryl has a silver strand permanently in the back of her head now. The floor pulls out from under Meryl's feet, when Milly finally looks up and their eyes meet.
Wolfwood must be saying important things but Meryl can't hear his monologue over the ringing in her ears, the beat of her heart drumming out of her chest, and she thinks, all she thinks is God, save me—we're still alive, and that's all that has ever mattered and suddenly, as a ring presses onto her finger, it's the only thing that ever mattered.
"I do," says Meryl—because they're still alive, because it's never late to say again—"I do," she says even though she already said yes, God, always, and the priest laughs—"Christ, I wasn't even halfway done, shortstack—" and Milly's mouth makes a little o before stretching into the loveliest smile in the entire universe—Meryl is gone just like that. Their noses brush, almost, "Ack!", too hard from the sharp way Meryl leans, and, "My foot!", her legs burn from going onto tiptoes in heels and Milly's lips are the loveliest lips in the entire universe and there's confetti everywhere and screaming children and applause and crying but Meryl, Meryl doesn't hear any of that. Under her hands Milly's cheeks are soft and her's to hold and she makes a small sound of undiluted, unconcerned happiness and contentment. It ends eventually, their first kiss in holy matrimony, as it must at some point, but it's fuzzy when it does. Milly's lashes cast shadows in Proxima B's sunlight.
"Poor Mr. Wolfwood, he's gonna have a limp now," is the first thing Milly says as Meryl's wife and Meryl can't—she loses it entirely, in the hands of her bride and friends and family and the horrible no good bad men in her life.
The bouquet is a lovely, small thing of white helichrysums, more green than anything. "It's a gift, Vash said," Milly smiles, "from his sisters." When Meryl looks over her shoulder, Vash is fighting his wobbling lip with the wettest eyes Meryl has ever seen on him.
"They're very happy for you girls," he says, and it's nasal and rushed because he sobs at the end despite his best efforts and the way his entire face crumples is scrubbed furiously with his sleeve. "I'm so happy for, for you—I can't—"
"Good lord blondie, can't you go one day without raining on everyone's damn parade?"
"I'm not even blonde anymore—"
"Now, now, get in line with the other children you two," Milly says beatifically and Meryl chokes on the ugliest snort. Milly turns to Meryl then and it's like Meryl's back in the Earth forces barracks, thumbing the little box in her pocket and being proposed to in the space station before she can even get on one knee. She slips the stems into Meryl's fingers and holds the flowers and Meryl's hand up like a torch. "Shall we?"
When the time comes and the children and young women and young men and the old wanted man and his priest are crowded together, Meryl bites her lip, shooting a mischievous look at Milly and flings the entire thing back with vigor—but the bouquet goes sharply askew and out of reach as the ship's haul shudders and groans and everything suddenly veers into the air.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Roberto complains, sailing past with flailing arms as his camera clicks wildly in his grip. Once Meryl turns to look it's to see children slowly drifting up to the ceiling, sideways, upside down with pealing screams and shocked giggles, flower baskets overturned and spilling artificial petals into the air; all that, as well as a front row seat to a rapidly paling Vash, who goes crashing directly into Wolfwood—face first. The camera continues to go off from somewhere under the beams.
"God—that's a terrible first kiss," Milly gasps through kindled laughter. Her eyes crinkle, like the double sunsets on No Man's Land, and the ring hugs her finger in Meryl's hand and something inside Meryl's chest finally, finally loosens.
"I love you," Meryl says in one breath, and then, slower, "I love you," because some things bear repeating, as many times as possible. "I love you, Milly."
Milly's hand curls on the small of her back and she holds Meryl's veil between them and the rest of the deck room. This time the kiss is gradual—it happens like a celestial movement in the sky, weightless and unimaginably bright, and it overtakes Meryl's senses one by one until Milly mouths the words back into the corner of Meryl's lips. It would have been perfect except there's a string of expletives coming from the direction of the Wolfwood-and-Vash entanglement going on under the ceiling and the children repeating the particularly foul words with glee. Their unfortunate position looks as painful as does the open-wound yearning on their faces. There's a bruise forming on Wolfwood's jaw. Milly leans to her ear and Meryl goes hot.
"I think," Milly says and her breath ghosts warmly in ways that make Meryl shiver, "that Vash's sisters are desperate for him to make an honest man out of Nicholas."
"Oh my god," Meryl says through rapturous laughter, bubbling up her lungs like champagne. The bouquet is nowhere to be seen. "Oh my god Milly, we're married now."
"We are," Milly says softly, serious.
"We're gonna do taxes together now."
"We've already been doing that for a while, haven't we?"
"But, but now, god, Milly, it's just—"
"Sempai."
"Yes?"
"May I have this dance?"
Meryl doesn’t really know how to dance at all. She's never had her prom, cancelled thanks to a worm outbreak in the city, and the following years never fit anything so idle except for some silly swaying in bars. Their wedding is almost entirely unrehearsed. It feels both daunting and like the most natural thing ever when Milly slides her fingers into Meryl's, and says, “Good evening, Mrs. Stryfe." Behind, the sun is low and platinum on the horizon as it always is at these coordinates on Proxima, fixed.
The plants sing, a high, sweet sound over the chaos reigning amongst the wedding venue, and Milly's hand slides down her back, steady and warm, just right, perfect, across the air, their dresses fluttering around their ankles, and Meryl is at that moment, incandescently happy.
Gravity gives a kick and suddenly the room spins, centrifugal, and all Meryl can do is cling closer. Milly's veil is gone when gravity returns gently, harmless to all but their hairdos. Milly's stubborn cowlick curls over her forehead and Meryl brushes it back behind her ear with a thumb.
“Mrs. Stryfe,” Meryl says, aiming for serious but missing entirely. She feels ridiculous; she feels young. She can feel how widely she’s smiling.
Milly does something between one moment and the next because it feels like gravity has gone wild again, but for Meryl alone—dipped into an arch, Milly's hair curtains them off, good things come in threes, she barely thinks before melting. This kiss is dramatic but chaste because a camera shutters with a slightly nauseated, “fucking finally,” before Roberto rushes for the restroom, the poor, insufferable man, gravity-sick.
Milly pushes her right hand flat against Meryl's, where both of their rings clink together. When they come apart, Milly beams. “All yours, sempai,” she says, and adds, "forever," and winks. The song swells again—it sounds distinctly like girlish giggling.
***
Stars shift in an endless opaque vacancy over a small planet in close proximity to the Alpha Centauri system. They're writing history four hundred years down, returning to the planet they came from, the only planet they're meant for, trying to overcome the mistakes that ruined them all in the first place, plants and animals and humans, migratory birds, birthed by a planet that's still, at the end of the third millenia, blue. The camera's memory card is full by the hour's end, photographs fraught with artifacts and low resolution and smeared frames and they will be the best wedding photographs to have ever been taken on Proxima B.
The bride's bouquet hides in the seat of the priest's bike; leaning against the leather handles stands a cross, draped in a veil.
fin