Wise One Speak

New Tokyo wasn’t built for beauty, but somehow it had found it anyway.

The red Martian soil stretched out endlessly beneath towering domes that shielded its sprawl. 

From a distance, the city seemed to float—a mosaic of glass and concrete, etched with swirling patterns of moss and lichen bioengineered to thrive in the thin Martian air.

Gone were the delicate wooden frameworks and fresh ingredients of Old Tokyo. 

On Mars, survival didn’t leave room for tradition, so the traditions adapted. The ramen broths were powdered, the sushi wrapped in algae sheets and filled with lab-grown proteins. Onigiri glowed faintly, stuffed with spiced compounds engineered to mimic what they couldn’t grow. It was all from plants that could grow well on Mars... and grow well. 

That was, before humans genetically engineered crops to be able to thrive on Mars as well. From then on, the choice to use the original Martian ingredients were more of a source of pride than anything.

Lena stood at the edge of a viewing platform, her camera in hand. It was an old model, vintage even by Earth’s standards, but she liked the weight of it, the way it forced her to frame things slowly. No VI to help her either, just her and her input. It provided her opportunity to... think clearer. But there was a quiet thrill in that.

“Plan first, then pictures,” she murmured to herself, snapping a shot of the skyline. She didn’t look up as she heard footsteps behind her. “You two taking this seriously?”

“As serious as it deserves to be.”

Caden’s tone followed, calm and deliberate. “I am ready for key imagery generation, as always.”

Lena lowered the camera, glancing over her shoulder. Margot leaned against the railing, Cloud perched comfortably on her shoulder. Her gaze swept the city, her expression unreadable.

“Right,” Margot muttered, turning her attention back to Lena. “And you?”

Lena ignored her, snapping another shot.

Margot raised an eyebrow, but she didn’t press. Instead, she looked down at the streets below, where Elise and Maya were weaving through a line of food stalls. The vendors called out to them, their voices a mix of human and synthesized tones, offering glowing onigiri, ramen in sealed containers, and skewers of lab-grown meats drenched in thick, spicy sauces.

“You’re letting them run loose?” Margot asked.

“They need it,” Lena replied, her voice softer. “Let them have their fun. We’ve got the rest of the solar system waiting for us.”

Margot let out a short laugh, leaning against the railing. “You’re not wrong. But don’t think for a second Maya won’t post a hundred pictures of herself eating radioactive-looking onigiri. The fans’ll eat that up more than the food.”

"Let her. It’ll keep the attention where it needs to be.”

Caden tilted his head, watching the two of them for a moment. “Are you worried about the team’s cohesion?” he asked, his tone neutral.

“No,” Lena said quickly, too quickly. “They’re fine. Really. Maya’s overdoing it a little, but that’s who she is.”

Lena’s grip on the camera tightened. She turned back toward the city, snapping a picture of a group of drones weaving between the towering buildings.

“I’ll meet you at the hotel,” Lena said finally, her voice even. “You’ve got recruits to handle, and I’ve got pictures to take.”

HOTWIRED!HOTWIRED!HOTWIRED!HOTWIRED!HOTWIRED!HOTWIRED!HOTWIRED!HOTWIRED!

The rooftop garden stretched out in a quiet, artificial glow. New Tokyo hummed softly below, its bioluminescent towers casting faint light onto the red Martian soil. The air was thin, filtered through invisible ducts in the dome above, but it still carried a metallic sharpness Lena couldn’t get used to. She leaned on the railing, camera dangling from her neck, its lens catching flickers of the city’s light.

She wasn’t looking for anything in particular—just shapes, moments, something to capture. Something that felt real.

“You seem lost.”

The voice startled her. She turned, her breath catching as her eyes landed on the speaker.

It stood a few feet away, perched lightly on a low ledge. Its frame was smaller than she expected—two, maybe three feet tall, with sleek, iridescent feathers that shifted in color from deep indigo to soft silver as it moved. Its wings folded neatly against its sides, their edges tapering into faint, translucent tips that seemed to shimmer in the dim light. Its eyes were large and dark, unblinking but calm, and its head tilted slightly as it studied her.

And honest to God, it wasn't using any translation hardware to communicate a single syllable. That was dedication.

Lena straightened, brushing her hair back awkwardly. “A little,” she admitted. “I was just trying to get a better view of the city. Make sure I don’t need to adjust anything for the show.”

The avian’s head tilted further, a soft trill escaping its throat. “You are a performer.”

Lena nodded, relaxing slightly. “Yeah. Lena. Or Astra, if you’ve been on the Net. I’m... a singer, mostly.”

“The Net is foreign to us. Unnatural.” The avian’s voice was smooth, melodic, carrying faint harmonics that seemed to linger in the air. “I know the name. It sings often here.”

Lena laughed softly, rubbing the back of her neck. “Yeah, that’s me.”

The avian stepped closer, its talons clicking softly against the ledge. “You do not sound like the name you carry.”

The words hit Lena harder than she expected, and she hesitated before replying. “It’s still me,” she said quietly. “Just... the polished version.”

The avian didn’t respond immediately, its gaze shifting past her to the city below. “This place,” it said after a moment, its voice quieter, “is bright, but hollow. It does not know itself. Does your name know you?”

It was this time she remembered reading somewhere brighter plumages denoted the males of the species. She felt the urge to smack her head. Lena opened her mouth, then closed it, unsure how to answer. Instead, she gestured toward the avian. “What about you? Do you have a name?”

“Ts’iril,” he said, the syllables clicking softly in its throat.

Lena tried to repeat it, but the sounds tangled in her mouth. “Ts... Tsira?”

“Ts’iril,” he said again, its tone patient, though the harmonics of the name shifted slightly, as if to accommodate her voice.

“Close enough,” Lena said, exhaling a short laugh. “What about your world? What’s its real name? Not... Auralis, right?”

Ts’iril’s feathers rippled faintly, shifting to a cool silver. “You will not pronounce it,” he said simply.

“Try me,” Lena replied, smiling faintly.

The avian tilted his head again, and then he sang—not a word, but a soft series of tones and clicks, rising and falling in a way that resonated in Lena’s chest. 

“T’khaara’Nyll.”

The sound lingered long after it faded, settling into the quiet hum of the rooftop.

Lena blinked, her throat tightening. “I won't pretend to know what that means."

“It is the sound of its winds,” Ts’iril said. “Of its cliffs and its storms. It is what was lost, and what we carry still.”

Lena didn’t respond at first, her fingers brushing the feather she had tucked into her jacket pocket. She pulled it out, holding it up in the faint light.

"Hope this isn't yours."

He remained silent.

“...I remember now. We got taught it in school,” she murmured. “I always thought it was just... pretty. I didn’t remember it had a story.”

Ts’iril stepped closer, his gaze fixed on the feather. “Every feather is a journey,” he said. “This one has flown high, fallen far, and risen again. It reminds us that we do not fly without weight. The weight is what lets us feel the wind.”

Lena turned the feather in her hands, its edges catching the faint glow of the city. “That sounds like something I should’ve figured out by now.”

Ts’iril’s feathers rippled again, shifting into warmer hues. “You are still learning to fly. That is no shame.”

Lena smiled faintly, tucking the feather back into her pocket. She glanced at Ts’iril, her voice quieter now. “Your people... they don’t hate us, do they? For what happened to your world?”

“No,” Ts’iril replied simply. “Hate is heavy, and we have chosen to fly. But we grieve. And we remember.”

Lena’s chest tightened. She looked back out at the city, the glow of its lights suddenly sharper, more brittle.

“You carry doubt,” Ts’iril said softly, his melodic voice cutting through the quiet.

Lena blinked, startled. She looked at the avian, her lips twitching into a faint smile. “I thought you guys weren’t supposed to be mind readers too.”

“We are not, unfortunately,” Ts’iril replied, tilting his head. “But doubt clings to you as tightly as your name.”

Lena exhaled, her fingers brushing the feather in her pocket. “I don’t even know what I’m doubting anymore,” she admitted. “Myself, maybe. Whether any of this—me—actually matters.”

Ts’iril’s feathers rippled, their hues shifting to soft gold. “What do you think matters?”

She hesitated, her gaze dropping to her hands. “The show. The fans. The… image, I guess. Astra. It’s what everyone expects. It’s what I’ve built.”

“And you?” Ts’iril asked. “What do you expect?”

The question settled heavily in the air, and Lena let it linger, afraid of what her answer might be. “I don’t know. I think I’ve been running so long, I forgot what I was running toward.”

Ts’iril stepped closer, his dark eyes fixed on her. “You run because you fear stopping. But to fly, you must first leap, not flee.”

“That’s easier said than done. Leaping means trusting you’ll find something solid. Or that you won’t fall too far.”

“Falling is not the end,” Ts’iril said, his tone calm but resonant. “Even when we fall, we find wind beneath us. The ground is not your enemy—it is your teacher.”

Lena frowned, her fingers tightening on the railing.

Ts’iril’s feathers shimmered again, their colors deepening to twilight blues. “The wind is always there, Lena who sings.”

For a moment, Lena said nothing. She turned her gaze back to the city, the glow of its lights catching faintly in her eyes. “You make it sound so simple,” she said finally.

“Not simple,” Ts’iril replied. “But possible.” He paused, then added softly, “The weight you carry—it is yours to hold. But not forever. To fly is to let it fall when the time comes.”

The words settled deep in Lena’s chest, and for the first time in a long while, she felt something shift—small, almost imperceptible, but real. She looked at Ts’iril, her voice quieter now. “How do you know when it’s time?”

Ts’iril’s feathers rippled, the gold returning in soft streaks. “When the wind calls louder than the weight.”

Lena nodded slowly, her hand brushing against the feather in her pocket. The doubts were still there, but they felt lighter now, like they might lift with the wind if she let them.

Lena didn’t respond, her hand brushing her pocket again. The hum of the city filled the silence between them, but for the first time, it didn’t feel so loud.

“Thanks,” she said finally.

Ts’iril dipped its head, stepping back toward the edge of the platform. “May the skies find you, Lena who sings.”

As it lifted off into the faint glow of the dome, Lena watched it go, her fingers tracing the edges of the feather. For the first time in weeks, she let the wind carry her.