The scent of unearthed plants coats my lungs like the rich black soil clinging to my fingers and burrowing under my nails. A multitude of green surrounds me with hints of the faded blue of identification signs and the pale, sandy tan of the retaining walls peeking through. If I look up, the white-blue shimmer of the bio dome arcs far above, marking the furthest reaches of this little nature sanctuary.

Something flutters and twists in my chest and I sigh, leaning forward and gently pulling out a fern from a pot to set in a hole I just finished digging. The task is simple, almost mindless, and I can almost ignore it. It's better than the bustle of constant security and the inmates of the common rooms, or the squeaks, hums, and echoes of the exercise rooms, or the soft, endless background music to my room.

In the Arbor, hidden by twisting walls of plants, I can pretend that I am alone. I can pretend that my guard isn't only around the corner and I am not in the highest security facility for villain rehabilitation. I can pretend why bone-deep fatigue clings to me like plastic wrap is because I didn't sleep well last night—and many nights before—and not because of the power suppressant patch on the back of my neck.

Here, in the greenery, I can pretend that everything's okay.

And then I finish planting the fern and the bubble of ignorance pops. Seven ferns down, four more to go. The smothering weight of weariness hits me again and I sigh under the force of it. With aching slowness, I pick up a trowel, shuffle to the right, and start digging. Once, I enjoyed gardening. That's what David told me; I loved gardening to the point where he and I would talk about plants for hours. Megabytes, I even had an entire mini empire of windowsill plants in my old apartment.

I can imagine my old self, coming home from a day of villanry and just...watering plants. Turning over leaves for bugs. Sprinkling a little fertilizer over them. Standing in front of the window and gazing at the sun pouring down on the only living things I cared about in the entire world and thinking, ah yes, this is the life.

Maybe once it brought me joy, peace, rejuvenation, but now I look at the plants and feel...nothing. No inward smile, no balm of a familiar and loved task, nothing. I don't enjoy gardening. I am not the person I used to be. I am not even the person I thought I was five—nearing six—months since the blanking.

Sometimes it hurts like a hole bored into my chest, like my ribs are hollow and echo with the absence of memories, and sometimes on days like this when I am as alone as I can get in this high security facility, the ache is almost gone and I catch my lips twitch upwards by themselves.

It's actually not too bad here at the High Security Villain Rehabilitation Center (HSVRC or VRC for short). Sure, there's guards all over the place with tasers strong enough to knock you out, ID scanners everywhere, mandatory power-suppressant patches, and a fixed schedule, but it doesn't feel like it. Everyone here treats me like a person—albeit a dangerous person—and tries to help me as best they can within the restrictions, which is far more than I expected.

Everything is more than I expected, actually. My room is an actual room, not a cell, the food tastes good (shocker), I am allowed to raid the snack bar at any time of the day (nighttime snacks have to be delivered), the variety of entertainment is not terribly limited, and the best part, they have rooms full of emotional support animals that you can hang out with any time of the day. Not bad for a place full of the strongest villains in the city.

A rustle and the soft scuff of footsteps reach my ears and I jerk, my surroundings slamming back into focus. Dirt rains down onto my lap from the un-potted fern I've been holding for who knows how long. Oops.

Citizen—Edison, his real name—rounds the corner, hands in his coat pockets and a faint smile on his face. "Hey." His hair is slightly more wild today, bearing the signs of constant ruffling, and there is a fresh nightshade sticking out of his breast pocket. He must have recently pilfered it from the flower section of the garden; it wasn't there when we came here.

Placing the fern in the hole beside me, I brush off my pants with a faint smile of my own. "Hey. Time to go?"

He nods, offering me a hand. "Yep. You got cats waiting for you."

A spark of light flashes in my chest along with a tingle of ice down my fingers. Yes, cat time is next! "Is Skittles there today?" I gather the tools and the rest of the ferns into a neat pile for the real gardener to put away before taking his hand and pulling myself to my feet.

"As far as I know." He raises his eyebrows, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. "You and that cat, huh?"

I don't hold back a smirk and nudge him as we start walking down the path. "Hey, she's the best cuddler! We love each other."

Edison relinquishes his attempt at seriousness and smiles with an easy air. "Skittles and Elias, the best snuggle team ever. At this rate, you two are going to dominate the world with free cuddles."

Elias. Even after months of hearing it, it's still strange to hear my old, now primary, name and respond to it. It fits like an old, familiar code language that should've long since gone obsolete yet still runs perfectly. Familiar, yet strange, fitting, yet not, just like so many other things in my life.

But it's better than Denizen, though. Denizen is not real. He's someone else that I pretended to be, a face that I tried to graft on as my own, a person that no longer exists, and I can't bear to be called by his name.

"And free ice cream."

Edison's words are quiet but strange enough to crash me back into the present. Shoot. Did I forget to answer again? Has it been too long? Why do power suppressant patches have to have the side effect of spacing out? Gah, keep it together, Elias! Clearing my throat and giving myself a mental kick I say, "Free ice cream?"

The plants on either side fall away and we approach the biodome's door. Edison taps his holowatch on the keypad and types in the code as he speaks. "Yeah. It's an inside joke we used to share as kids." The door swings open and the sound of voices, shoes on hard floor, and the soft hum of security fields breaks the peaceful silence. We step out and head for the far hall on the other side of the Great Intersection.

"Ice cream was expensive in our area and we thought it a crime against kid-kind, so as our imaginary hero personas, we made a pact that when we were influential, we'd make ice cream free. Everyone was supposed to love that so much that we'd dominate the world through free ice cream." He chuckles, a fondness coloring his voice. "We had a lot of wildly unrealistic dreams like that."

"Sounds fun." I don't know what else to say, because it does sound fun. It's so ridiculous, so far out of touch from reality, it sounds like normal kid chaos. That in and of itself isn't too special, but to me it says we were normal kids. We had normal lives. Normal impossible dreams. Normal sibling interaction.

And that fills my heart with a swelling emptiness lined with the fading warmth of loss and at the same time, cracks my mouth open in a wistful smile in a way I can't explain.

Edison meets my gaze, the corners of his eyes tight and his words thick with coded undercurrents. "It was. It was a lot."

I look away first, a nod hiding a hole yawning open inside my chest. These days it's almost easy to forget he remembers a different Elias than me. He smiles, laughs, always willing to let me talk about whatever I want without judgment, and I can almost believe we're mending the gap between us.

But then one of these moments happen, where his eyes get distant and his voice thickens and he sees through me to someone else I am not. I am not the brother he remembers, the villain he tracked down, the fake citizen. I am just me. Someone. Doing something. Trying to piece my life back together one step at a time.

He's gotten much better since I first came here but sometimes, in moments like these, the past refuses to leave and awkward silence born of years of separation stretches between us. We've forgotten how to talk to each other like brothers and it seems no matter how many ways we try, it's not, and maybe can't ever, be the same.

My gaze flickers to the guards in blue walking down the hall opposite of us, escorting a girl with dark green hair who walks with a haunted gaze. She's another high-security inmate, like me. Like me. Inmate, prisoner, villain, such a different life than Edison's. Such a different life than what I lived with him.

Darkness slides into the spaces between my insides like a dark sludge, squishing and sloshing with each step I take, permanently staining my skin. I drop my eyes to my bare feet for the rest of the way.

We reach the cat room and, after passing the security measures, step inside. The room is spacious with a few couches positioned around the many cat trees, scratching posts, beds, hidey-holes, and other paraphernalia, many of which are covered in cats. As soon as the door slides shut behind me, a calico cat leaps off a shelf and streaks over, meowing like she is starving.

I reach down and scoop her up, scratching her head. "Missed me, Skittles?"

She meows again and rubs against my hand, purring.

The darkness in my insides ease and I chuckle as I stroke her soft fur. Even though I don't feed her any more treats than allowed, she still loves me the most, something that loosens knots from my heart. She's just so soft and loving and simple compared to everything else in my life. I give her cuddles and treats, she gives me love and loud attention, and that's all there is to it. No unvoiced expectations, no catches, no constantly changing rules, just cuddles.

A phrase my therapist says comes to mind and I quote it into Skittles' ear as I scratch her ear. "Fixing things one cuddle at a time, huh?"

She purrs extra loud, leaning her full weight against my chest and looking up at me with her vibrant green eyes in a way that says, That's right. I'm the best.

I grin. Of course you are. Flipping her over so she's belly up in my arms, I jiggle her a little. She responds by stretching her front paws up to bap my chin in protest, drawing out another laugh. Skittles never fails to make me feel better with her antics. And that's why she's the best.

The prickle of a gaze touches my skin and I glance up, catching Edison staring at me, the dark shadow of the past haunting his eyes and a little downward curve to his mouth. He starts and clears his expression like the flip of a switch, offering a tentative, 'go on' smile.

Nope. I am not buying that. Lifting Skittles up a little, I pin him down with direct eye-contact as I speak. "Say, you know what would be more awesome? Making ice cream free."

The smile wavers, cracks, and comes with the full force of relief mixed with hope. He approaches, the tightness around his eyes still apparent. "Especially the hot chocolate flavor." He says it with a casual tone, but the end of his words flit upwards, caught in the uncertain position between a statement and a question.

I catch the flit and turn it towards the statement with a quirk of my eyebrow. "There's a hot chocolate flavored ice cream?"

The last of the tension vanishes from Edison's face and he flashes a sharp grin. "Of course there is! There's a flavor for everything." The grin dims and all at once, there's a shadow behind his eyes again. "It was our favorite."

Was. It's one word, but it somehow encapsulates everything I am missing. We had a favorite together and now we don't. I don't even know what my favorite flavor is now. Chocolate, maybe? It's been ages since I last had ice cream (and, subsequently, found out that I am now allergic to it too). The weight of years between us globs down onto my shoulders, dragging me towards the floor.

I draw in a breath, struggle to hold it for five seconds, and let it out, pulling Skittles closer. With effort, I force back the goop and wedge words between it and me. "I'd like to try it again someday." I'd like to taste it again. I'd like to see which flavor is my favorite. I'd like to move on, somehow, and make new bridges.

A hand settles on my shoulder and squeezes. "Someday is now. I'll send for some." It is one of the rare times when both me—the real me, whoever that is—and the past are clear in his eyes, and he smiles because of both.

My face softens and the goop lightens slightly. "Thanks."

With a nod, he strides over the door and taps a few times on the ComPan before speaking into it, the noise cancellation field keeping me from hearing anything.

When I am sure he is distracted, I look down at Skittles and give her an extra chin scratch, making sure to pin the smile to my face so it doesn't slip as I try to reinforce the light around the dark void behind my thoughts where my memories are supposed to be. Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever find the missing something, or if it's lost forever to the static in my head and we'll always be like this: searching and expecting something just a little bit more, someone a little bit different than me.