"You!" Pearl starts at the shout and turns slightly, only to find an unpleasantly brightly blue-streaked finger pointed at her, mere inches from her face. It is ridiculous, really - they all have designations, and it's not as if they are difficult to look up, but the currently supervising Apatite has apparently not bothered to do any such thing. "You," she repeats, "I need you and two others on the port bow thruster coolers, immediately."

Cooling system malfunctions in the middle of wormhole traversal are definitely no joke, and pearl hastily stuffs her tools back into the many small compartments of her personal case, with little resembling her usual care and meticulousness. She stumbles to her feet and dashes off down perfectly memorised narrow, twisting corridors and up shaky, shadowy catwalks.

Haste or no, she's still the last one to arrive at the site, and she feels her face colour even though the looks the other two pearls throw her remain perfectly (pointedly) neutral. She throws herself into opening up access hatches instead of dwelling on her own shortcomings.

They aren't fast enough. The heat mounts, and alarm indicators are lighting up all over the board by the time the three of them manage to even get close to the faulty crossed wiring, fingers worn raw with near-desperate scrabbling around bolts and seams. There is smoke, suddenly, and a very ominous sound, and pearl feels the first worrying jolt of the ship bucking under her knees.

They are plunged into darkness, then, and everything stops. The smoke clears, very slowly, and they are joined by Apatite, looking extremely displeased. Livid, even, if the almost glowing blue of her face is any indication. "Your registry numbers," she grinds out, and oh, now she wants to know, of course- "last three digits only."

Pearl mutters the well-worn nine-four-oh when prompted, then follows, when motioned to do so, the other two back to the segment of the ship's generous hold made to accommodate its large support crew of mostly pearls, with some ambers thrown into the mix.

Their knees and elbows knock together awkwardly as they settle down next to each other, but they are used to it. All of the pearls are, all one hundred and twenty six of them currently crewing the large mining vessel. One hundred and twenty four, pearl corrects her internal count - there was that unfortunate mishap with a damaged pressure equaliser pump two shift rotations ago.

She came so very close to joining them just now, and this awareness makes her feel… strange. If it hadn't been for the bridge commander engaging emergency power cut measures (and throwing a rather big wrench into their schedule, most likely), she has no doubt there would now be scarcely enough of her gem left to be residue scraped off of blown-open bulkheads, and the only record of her ever having existed would be a footnote in a ship's manifest. A minor loss, and brief inconvenience, at best. There would always be more pearls to take the place of ones that got damaged or destroyed or lost, and there could always be more made, if necessary – on very short notice, even, with modern farming technology.

There is a quality to the hum of the power supply converters and the steady pulse of the fuel injectors, at their loudest down near the cargo area, that pearl usually finds soothing. But it's not working now, for whatever reason, and she could have been gone-

She feels wrong and cramped and she wants out- where? there isn't exactly anywhere to go on a ship in the middle of space, but it doesn't matter. She scrambles to her feet in a near-panic and starts weaving her way through the currently unneeded pearls calmly waiting for a call, perfectly docile, and perfectly disposable. Interchangeable, almost, in the eyes of most Gems, except for records of mistakes. Efficiency is important, of course, and pearl populations are kept at carefully optimal levels. Tolerance thresholds are low, flaws and defects are quickly exposed.

Some heads turn towards her, but very few. Pearls are extraordinarily good at minding their own business, even amongst themselves. They probably assume she is acting on orders – a very natural assumption to make, of course, as pearls do so very little else. And pearl finds herself thinking sudden intrusive thoughts of how both these things reek of quiet, subtle, perhaps even desperate attempts at self-preservation – using what tools they are given.

She hurries past the pearls just coming in from their shifts, and makes for the first lift going upwards. Soon enough, she steps out onto a secondary observation deck, and finally slows down.

She is alone, which is rare enough in itself.

The view is mesmerising.

They've apparently made it out of the wormhole in one piece, and are now calmly coasting onwards. Not too far off their starboard side, pearl can easily see the very recognisable wedge-shape of the Zircon Cluster, famous for its frequent ion storms. There's one happening right now, dazzlingly intense, and pearl edges forward, barely managing to force her legs to work. It's bright, and in intervals bursts brighter still, pale violet flash-fire bolts that leave strangely discoloured shadows floating in pearl's vision when they're gone.

She raises a hand, presses long fingers against the thick glass of the viewport, and watches ribbons of light stream between the gaps. It feels like touching- something, and she nurses a slowly mounting frustration because she has so very little to compare it to. Pearl leans forward, and with a quiet clink of her gem lets her forehead rest against the barrier between her and the universe before her.

She wants - and while want isn't exactly new, it's not something she's ever allowed herself or been allowed to nurture and let take hold - to go closer. She wants, perhaps, to board one of those smaller crafts they keep around for quick station runs when there isn't time or need to haul the entire ship in and deal with complicated docking procedures. She wants to drive the small speeder's engines to the limit, dashing straight towards the storm, then cut all power and leave herself drifting and looking on in perfect silence, illuminated by nothing but what the universe freely gives her.

She wants-

"What are you doing?" Comes a hiss from behind her, and she jumps away from the glass as if burned. It's another pearl, one of the other two that were lucky enough to get noted down… well, however long ago that had been.

"Nothing!" Pearl exclaims, too quickly, and too loudly, then reverts back to a whisper. "I was just… I was just looking."

"Were you told to look?"

"No."

"Then get away from there and go wait for the directives to roll out, before you get us both in trouble."

She understands, of course. They are both on thin ice after that disastrous last shift, and drawing attention to themselves is the very last thing they need. If it were just herself, then perhaps she'd argue, and fight, and stay until someone came to remove her- but she won't pointlessly risk another.

The other pearl takes her arm, but pearl moves so she is holding her by the hand, and it feels strange- strange that they all spend so much time packed together in far too small spaces, but have so little experience with voluntary touch. She looks over at her companion as they make it to the lifts, at the features that are almost her own, but a little sharper here, and a bit more severely sloped there, sporting a frown that is uniquely someone else's, and she decides that perhaps, if the opportunity presents itself, she might like to talk to her. Decides, also, that if it doesn't, she'll create the opportunity herself.

She sits down once they get back to the hold, wiggles into the cramped space that's been left empty for her, and accidentally elbows the pearl to her right. Her knees knock together, and it's as if she never got up and left.

Except she did, which makes all the difference, and vivid colours play on her lids as she closes her eyes and quietly hums along with the power converters.