Hilargi wasn’t sure what to do with herself when she wasn’t researching, so she headed back to her quarters and looked through her collection of books on her bookshelf.

She kept a blank book where she drew dozens of poorly-drawn stick figures. Secretly, she wanted to be one of the greats like Michelangelo or Bouguereau, even though she knew she would never have as much talent as they did. She had no time to hone her craft, and even if she did, she knew that she simply didn’t have talent in the craft. No, her talents instead lay in cold science, whether she liked it or not.

Hilargi decided to flip through the blank book--that, in fact, had a few drawings in it--and maybe add to it, when she realized she could make Yair add to it, instead.

“Yair!” Hilargi exclaimed giddily. “Come here for a moment! Let’s do some drawing!”

The mutant girl grabbed the blank book and handed it to Yair. Next, she opened the bottom drawer of her dresser where she kept the few drawings she was proud of as well as her colored pencils that Ellia had allowed her to form out of the extra magnesium oxide they had in store.

“Drawing? But why?” Yair questioned.

“I want to see what you come up with!” Hilargi hopped from foot-to-foot excitedly with the colored pencils in hand.

Yair sank to the floor, crossing his metal legs. “Very well. Why the excitement?”

“I just want to see what you come up with!” Hilargi told him, ripping a blank page out of the book and handing it to Yair along with the three colored pencils.

Hilargi grabbed another book from the shelf and gave it to Yair so he could use it as a hard surface to draw on.

Hilargi then tore out a blank page for herself and laid it on top of the book.

They drew in silence for a time until Hilargi finally spoke up. “You know, me and my mom used to color like this all the time. She was the one who taught me how to make colored pencils. She always told me that the things a person draws tells you who they are and what they want. That’s why I want to see what you come up with.” She sighed contentedly, happy in her reminiscing.

Yair looked up from his drawing and over at Hilargi. He found himself smiling. “I didn’t know that about you.”

Hilargi struck the page with a red colored pencil, furiously scribbling to create a circle.

As she drew, she was somewhat surprised that she didn’t program him with that knowledge about her. She remembered why she didn’t; she wanted him to practice requesting information with her so he would know how to do it with other people.

Hilargi became absorbed in her drawing, going silent again. Her creativity was an unlit, wet match, and the opportunity to draw—to pick the vivid colors she wanted to pick and reach down deep inside herself to create something that was entirely hers and meant for no one else but her—set that match ablaze in an explosion of self-expression that had been long repressed, even if the result was childish and clumsy.

She could feel the breath of the white lines representing wind kissing her face, she could hear the crickets hiding in the green blades of grass chirping, and she embraced the thick strands of yellow sunlight sinking into her skin.

“Hilargi…”

“Hilargi…”

“Hilargi…”

Yair’s voice interrupted her concentration. She snapped to attention, clenching the green pencil in her hand. She scratched her head, her face turning red in embarrassment. “I’ m sorry, what?”

“I finished.” Yair told her.

He held up his drawing and she was surprised by what he came up with.

It was a poorly drawn, but undeniably sweet and charming picture of Hilargi, Yair, and Nikodemus under a blue, sunny sky, standing on a vast, sandy desert.

It was the type of picture a human child would draw.

Hilargi crawled over to Yair--her eyes shiny with unshed tears for a reason she did not know—to get a better look at the picture.

“How did you come up with this? This is beautiful!” Hilargi wiped tears from her eyes as she smiled a wobbly smile.

“I wanted to draw myself with the two people I like best in the world.” Yair told her.

Hilargi just stared at the picture for a moment, shaking her head in disbelief by how much she loved Yair. She reached out a hand toward the picture.

“May I?” Hilargi asked.

Yair nodded. Hilargi grabbed the picture, running her fingers across the wobbly, crude lines of the stick figures lovingly. She sniffled. “I love it… Can I keep it?”

Yair looked at her curiously. “You may, but why are you crying?”

“Nothing, it just… Reminds me of being a child. Thank you for drawing this.” Hilargi told him sincerely.

As she looked at it, the tears wouldn’t stop coming. “I’m sorry, can you give me a moment, Yair?”

“Of course.” Yair replied and padded out of the room without another word.

As Hilargi ran her fingers affectionately across the picture, memories that she had not allowed herself to indulge in for the longest time dragged her into the past.

And suddenly, her fingers were not the long, slender fingers of an adult, but instead, the chubby, plump fingers of a child.