Believe Your Eyes

Yellow blossomed in the gloom between two trees, a single mote of light in the summer dark, then nothing. Isolde cocked her head, and let her finger slip down onto the trigger of her rifle. She’d never seen anything like it before.

Something is out there. Mutants? Raiders? Slavers out for revenge?

Again came the flash, closer this time, a single wink of marigold in shadow. Then two, then three. Isolde’s stomach and her grip on the rifle tightened. She should’ve been able to see them, whatever was hiding behind the flashes, but there was nothing there. Just the wind through the trees, kissing at her sweat-dewed skin.

One would’ve thought she was used to being afraid. That the tightness in her stomach wouldn’t be so sharp each time something new accosted her in the wasteland. But no, it was there, strong and cruel as ever.

“Connie, wake up.” She stepped back towards the tarp they’d pitched between their scout’s hovercraft and a pair of pines. More flashes, five, then ten, then twenty, all around her they blossomed like flowers planted in the empty air. In the faint light, she saw tiny shapes, little specks of black against the dark.

Her heel met the base of a pine with a thud, and her breath caught. “Constance!” she hissed, but the big idiot was snoring, and just out of range of a swift kick from her boot. Isolde clenched her jaw tight, eyes flitting from each new flash as they filled the forest.

Something scurried behind her, little feet across the forest floor, too small to be anything dangerous and yet she spun around with her rifle pointed at the faint outline of what might’ve been a squirrel. But the lights were there too, wafting gently between the trees, crisscrossing one another, joining together and splitting apart.

The more there were, the less cohesive the sequence. Isolde racked her mind, filtering through a hundred different dossiers on mutant fauna, trying to recall anything with bioluminescence. But there was nothing, and it was too late regardless.

Small wings flitted in the dark, and she smothered a yelp as something landed delicately atop her forearm. It was a miniscule thing—an insect with a long abdomen under closed wings. Time hung still for a moment, then the little creature pulsed with light.

Oh. Slowly, careful as not to disrupt her new passenger, Isolde lowered the rifle. Its tiny feet tickled as it crawled up her arm, exploring her as curiously as she observed it. With all the multi-headed, twisted-limb abominations they’d endured, she’d forgotten that time, radiation, and the savage minds of wicked men playing at god had not corrupted everything across the bloated corpse of Old America.

“Hello there,” she said softly, pressing a finger to her tricep as the creature crept along. It took the offered bridge, crawling down to her knuckle as she held her hand to her face. It must’ve been a brave one, for the others kept away, drifting between trees, over underbrush, and even beneath the tarp. “They call you a firefly, you aren’t going to set me on fire, are you?”

When the insect opened its wings, Isolde felt a sudden jolt of fear that it just might. But the firefly only launched up into the air, and winked with a flash of gold. Isolde’s hands fell to her sides, the sling of her rifle dragging across the floor as she turned, smiling at the concert of light amidst the dark.

Beneath the tarp, Constance still snored.

Deaf. Deaf and stupid. A score of the fireflies seemed to dance over him, brief pulses of yellow casting over his slackened features. His golden hair was askew, an end clung to the damp corner of his mouth, and stray strands rose and fell with each suck of air through his nose.

It might’ve been her watch, but they were supposed to wake when the other called, that was the whole point. Her smile fell into a thin-pressed line as she squatted down and shook him by one broad shoulder.

“Wha’s goin’on?” he slurred, voice thick and eyes shut. “Miss’me?”

She sneered. In your dreams, and even then I doubt it—

“S’good foo’,” he mumbled, trying to roll onto his side. “Shou’try…” He was dreaming. Right. Of course. Why would he ever ask her if he missed him? Why would she be in his dreams? They might’ve put their differences aside but that didn’t mean—

“Fucking wake up, Connie!” She shook him harder and he lurched up with a gasp, hand fumbling in the dark for his own rifle. Isolde smacked his arm with a pop, and Constance jerked away from her.

“Isolde? What’s wron—” The fireflies in the tent pulsed, and Constance’s jaw dropped in shock. “Shit!” He threw himself back, scrambling on his hands and feet as the bugs flitted away, his eyes bulging. Isolde made herself wait, biting her lower lip to keep the amusement down.

When the rest of the bugs lit, Constance yelped. “Whatthehellarethose?” His voice almost cracked, and then he backed right into another pine, smacking his head against the trunk with a thunk.

Isolde burst into laughter, not her usual snide, sharp staccato. It came up from her belly and doubled her over. Constance scowled at her as he rubbed at the back of his head, but irritation became terror in an instant when a firefly blinked not a few inches from his face, and she laughed harder.

“They’re harmless, you idiot. Don’t piss your pants,” Isolde managed, wiping at her eyes.

Constance’s dark eyes darted between her and the insect, as though unsure if this were all some trap. Another bit of proof for his idiocy. They’d stopped trying to kill one another months ago, if she’d meant him harm she’d have done it. If I meant you harm, I wouldn’t have saved you.

And he wouldn’t have saved her. Annoying as it was, he had done that.

“Connie,” she softened her tone through the laughs, “They’re fireflies.”

Swallowing, Constance’s face slowly relaxed, his eyes softening, the bunching muscles in his jaw coming loose. “Oh,” he said sheepishly, sounding every bit as embarrassed as she had felt, but with the poor sense to say it aloud.

“I’ve never seen them before, you?” Isolde asked, offering him a hand up. He took it, and she hauled back on her heels to bring him to his feet. Instantly, he looked down, rubbing at his head as he towered over her.

“No, never. I thought they were all gone between the bombs and the plagues and…y’know.” He turned his eyes up to the motes of light, a smile starting at the corners of his lips. “They’re pretty,” Constance observed.

“They’re beautiful.” She stepped closer, and gave him a nudge with her elbow. “Come on, use your big words.”

Rolling his eyes, Constance scoffed. “Right. Sorry. So you awoke me from my slumber to bear witness to these airborne insectoids—ow!” She cut his mockery short with another, sharper elbow.

Why do I bother showing you anything? You’ve got none of the brains for it. I should’ve brought—He laughed, not cruelly, but almost boyishly, lines furrowing around his lips, dimples appearing on his cheeks. For some reason, she snickered with him, only for it to cut into a giggle when one of the fireflies landed on his cheek, and Constance fought not to flinch.

The bug crawled casually up his cheek, and flashed its yellow glow over Constance’s face. His dark eyes were painted for a heartbeat, the brown warm and lustrous, flecked with some second color. Green? Blue? Gold?

Isolde lifted a brow, and set a hand on his wrist to stop him from shooing the fly away. She wanted to see the color in his eye again, that was all. She’d never seen anything like it before.