Grant loves the stars. Even as he stretches into a pair of pants, he can't help but grin. It twists from side to side on his face, an entirely uncontainable phenomenon that exposes the dimples on the highs of his cheeks. A giddy little laugh bubbles up his throat as thought after thought rushes through his head. Grant loves the stars, and today is the anniversary of his 22nd birthday - the age prerequisite for applying to Molt’s finest aerospace facility. He can practically taste the triumph on his lips as he licks them nervously, and he tugs his shirt here and there until it grudgingly settles into place; the reflective aluminum he stands before copies his movements.

“Lights to 100 percent, please,” Grant says, voice conversational as he ensures his sleeves are solidly covering all of his arm. His clothes are a dark black, the new sort of black that looks like a void of nothing against the concrete concept of his body. They are the regulation underclothes for any midline Moltesian; they are a fundamental protection from the strength of Hox, their resident red sun. “End Sleep Mode.”

“Certainly.” A metallic voice answers. It sounds neither male nor female; similarly, it is both coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. “Grant. Your heart rate is elevated from its rest. Are you in need of medical assistance?”

Grant grins up at the disembodied voice, eyes gleaming with an overabundance of excitement. “I appreciate the concern, but it’s unnecessary. Aren’t you excited? I’m about to be a Star Captain!”

“Negative. I am not sentient and as such cannot experience human emotion. In addition, you are not “about to be” a Star Captain. You will undergo vigorous studies and training before you can be deployed, and even then there is no guarantee you will be charged as a Captain until you have proven your worth in such a field.”

“It’s the sentiment that counts. I’m about to sign up for the program, at the very least.” He bounds over to the side of his bed and smacks a hand over the interface there. On cue, the far synthetic aluminum wall fades from opaque to transparent. Hox, ever a reliable resource, floods the room with natural light and illuminates the winking beads of crystalline wall ornaments. The effect is breathtaking. “Can you believe it took Earth over 4000 years of civilization to discover these?” He’s unspecific, but it doesn’t matter because the AI understands anyway, especially when Grant prods at one of the rough little things.

“It is expected, considering the material is not native to Earth. It is common to find raltin on Molt.”

Grant is wearing his winning smile as he walks the room’s perimeter aimlessly. “Okay,” He begins, drawing the “y” out far longer than is strictly necessary. “But they still had samples of it for at least 2000 years. Even if it wasn't naturally placed there-”

“-It was not.”

“-And, there is an and, I have a point here. It was there and no one really even talked about it. How dumb is that?”

A sharp knock sounds against the other side of Grant's door, which startles him out of his tangent. “Grant? Are you having discussions with the AI again?”

There's a beat of silence where Grant stares uncomprehending at the shut door. “No,” He replies dumbly just as the AI responds with a dull, “Yes.” Grant practically pouts.

“Traitor.”

~ . . . ~

The room is dim when he comes to. No one else is around, Aremant knows, because he lives intentionally alone. His life is a monotonous give and take of boring routine, constantly being too hot, and living a planetside life of too much light. It's never easy adapting to another planet, much less one so different from his own.

Sometimes he wakes up in the his room of perpetual 7% light settings and forgets that he isn't actually on his home planet. It's jarring when he wakes fully and remembers. Sometimes, it takes everything in him not to just forego the regulation long-sleeved pants-shirt combo. It isn't as though it will hurt anything - unless he decides to leave his miserable little house and into the dangerous rays of Molt’s consistently sunny days. On his first day planetside, his face burned so badly he nearly needed immediate skin regenerative attention.

He's learned his lesson about Hox, in any case, especially with his particularly sensitive, light skin.

“Aremant.”

He almost doesn't answer the voice. It's the only thing that has successfully lulled him out of bed for the past two years.

“Yes?” He's cautious, too, because the AI has a habit of tricking him. It has gotten clever in its singular experience with handling Aremant.

There is a slight pause as the AI processes what to say, which is also unsurprising. It doesn't always know exactly what to say, despite the nature of the technology. “You are 22 Standard years of age.”

Aremant tries to ignore the way the acknowledgement twists in his gut. It isn't a celebration by any means. “You are not wrong.”

“I state only facts, Aremant.” Another weighted beat of silence where Aremant really wishes the AI wouldn't continue. It never has listened to his hopes, he supposes. “On Molt, individuals of whom reach 22 meet a significant milestone. They are already an active member of society, of which is acknowledged at 19, but at 22 the individual receives a regulation communication device, if one desires as such. You must also be aware that 22 is the age of which individuals can finally apply to departmental careers.”

Aremant sighs, heavy and tired.

“You have not said anything for exactly five Standard minutes. Are you unwell?”

“My birthday was weeks ago. Why are you bringing this up now?”

The AI, oddly enough, seems to ponder this for a moment. “I believe you should retrieve your allotted communication device. It is only fair that you receive one.” Aremant does not miss the intentional hedging of his question.

He rolls his eyes in a borderline Human fashion before carefully extricating himself from his bed and into the cool, 273° Kelvin air. It's a shame the planet is so hot, but at least in his home he can luxuriate in the temperature he is most comfortable in. “You said, “if one desires as such.” I can tell you now, the outcome of getting such a device would surely not benefit me in any way.”

“Nor would it harm you.”

It's Aremant’s turn to pause in his routine of sliding his robes off of his person. Even as his body halts, the robes do not and they end in a pool around his ankles. “No. I suppose it would not.” His eyes skate consideringly toward the framed holovid lying face down on his end table. For all that it calls to him, he doesn't dare gaze at its contents. “I predict with 100% probability that you are correct.”