april 15th, 2648 - the antioch For a moment, the only sounds in the universe were the ragged breaths he had to force himself to take. One. Georgia Chapman, nineteen, Mahoroba, O negative, dead. Two. Santi Valdez, twenty-seven, Antilla, A positive, dead. Three. Solomon Wynter, twenty-two, Mahoroba, AB positive, dead. They didn't have enough O neg for one, let alone all, and now it dripped from the table to a growing pool beneath it at his feet. The sharp drag of a zipper cut through. His gloves off, he insisted on being the one to close the bag.

december 23, 2654 - arcadia, mahoroba The thing was that he tried. He tried to practice what he preached, found a local chapter, looked up meeting times, even showed up. He sat in the last row on a rickety old chair and he tried to not make it about himself. But hearing the guilt of others had it seeping into his own. He couldn't go up there. He couldnt introduce his own guilt to others already suffering. First, do no harm, he thought, but never extended the same courtesy to himself. He slunk out the back door and vomited in the gutter.

april 15, 2659 - terminus She made him own it. She made him verbalize the guilt in a way that minimized its hold. "If I forgot, I would be devaluing the privilege of being the last one to care for them." He couldn't breathe, had slid down with his back against his bedroom wall, knees to his chest, head in hands, and commlink tossed haphazardly to the side next to him. But... he had said it, and it was such a fucking relief that the guilt had a name and he had let go of the tiniest part of it for somebody else.