The Question
The hum of the vast warship’s systems was a soft background noise, almost comforting in its steady rhythm. Spotty leaned back slightly, her crystalline blue eyes reflecting the soft ambient lights of the dining deck. She held a taco in one hand but had paused mid-bite, her expression shifting from casual amusement to something more serious.
"It is possible," Spotty said bluntly, her tone matter-of-fact, the words sharp enough to cut through the lingering warmth of their conversation. "And easier to do than resurrecting a power that be."
Fred’s heart tightened, her fingers unconsciously gripping the edge of the table. "But…?"
Spotty didn’t soften her voice. She never did. Truth was truth, whether it was harsh or not. "But there is no guarantee he would come back unchanged."
Fred’s throat felt suddenly dry. The words hit harder than she expected. She glanced down at her plate, the food now an afterthought. Unchanged. The word echoed in her mind like a faint whisper of fear.
"Unchanged?" Fred asked quietly, her voice tinged with a mixture of hope and apprehension.
Spotty nodded slightly, setting the taco down as if it no longer mattered. "He could come back… different."
Fred’s brows furrowed, her heart racing. "Like he’d be a zombie or something?" she blurted out, almost regretting the words as soon as they left her lips. It sounded ridiculous, but the idea—the fear—was real.
Spotty let out a small, dry chuckle, shaking her head. "No. Not that different. He wouldn’t be some mindless husk or anything like that. His body would be whole. His mind would function. But…" She paused, searching for the right words. "His personality, emotions, the way he sees the world—those might change."
Fred felt like the room had grown colder, the weight of Spotty’s words settling over her like a thick blanket.
"Change how?" Fred pressed, her voice barely above a whisper. "Like… he’d forget who he was?"
Spotty’s gaze softened just a fraction, her voice lowering. "Not exactly. He’d remember. The memories would be there, but the way he feels about them—the way they shaped him—could be different. Imagine taking a puzzle apart and putting it back together… but a few pieces are shaped just a little differently. It’s still the same picture, but it doesn’t look exactly the same anymore."
Fred felt her chest tighten. The idea of Wesley’s face looking at her but with different eyes, with emotions that weren’t his, was almost worse than not seeing him at all.
"But… would he still care?" Fred’s voice cracked slightly. "Would he still—"
"Love you?" Spotty finished softly, her bluntness now tinged with a trace of understanding.
Fred’s breath hitched. She hadn’t wanted to say it out loud. Didn’t need to.
Spotty leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, her eyes locking onto Fred’s with an intensity that felt like it could see right through her. "I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. He might love you differently. He might not love you at all. Or… he might love you even more. Resurrection isn’t an exact science, even for me."
Fred swallowed hard, her fingers trembling slightly as she picked at the corner of a napkin. Her mind was racing, flooded with memories of Wesley—his quiet strength, his smile, the way he looked at her like she was the most important thing in the world. Could she risk losing that? Or worse… seeing it twisted into something unrecognizable?
"But… he’d still be him?" she asked, needing—desperately needing—some form of reassurance.
Spotty nodded slowly. "In the same way that a river is still a river even after the current changes. It flows differently, but it’s still made of the same water."
Fred sat in silence for a moment, her thoughts tangled like threads in a knot. Could she live with that? Could she face him if he came back… not quite Wesley?
Ila, who had been quietly listening, finally spoke up, her voice soft but steady. "Sometimes, the person we lose isn’t the same one we remember anyway. We just don’t notice because we’re too busy missing them."
Fred looked at her, tears threatening to form in her eyes. "That’s not exactly comforting."
Ila gave a small, knowing smile. "It’s not meant to be. It’s just the truth."
Kismet, lounging lazily near Spotty’s chair, flicked his tail, his sharp eyes glancing between them as if he understood every word.
Spotty finally leaned back, her expression thoughtful. "Is this just a hypothetical question, Fred? Or do you actually want to resurrect someone?"
Fred didn’t answer right away. She stared down at her plate, at the tacos she no longer had an appetite for. Wesley’s face flashed in her mind, his smile, his voice, the way he whispered her name like it was something precious.
When she finally looked up, her eyes were filled with conflict—hope and fear woven together like fragile threads.
"I don’t know."