Quill returns to a place she's been countless times. Deep within the planet, far beneath the bunker, she steps into a dimly lit tomb, the only sign of life the weak sunlight filtering in from what should be an impossible source. Quill has breathed with the space for so long, it is almost a comfort to her. A last memory of her people, her culture. She moves closer, clears a space among dusty and rotten offerings, placing one of her own. It is futile; she knows this. Yet she also knows belief is not fueled by ordinary laws nor ordinary realities.

The space must be cleaned before she begins her vigil, and Quill pours her rage into her actions, smoothing stone and etching away dirt. She has never been tender, nor is she now. Her care is ferocious and strong; it is a refusal to allow the past to fade. Sunlight wanes into moonbeams as Quill continues her once in a decade's work, not once stopping to study the glittering bones of her arms as she passes through energy and aura, thrown up into a storm of dust and wind and force.

The room glows once she has finished. It breathes more steadily as plants pick themselves up from the ground, revive themselves, given life through Quill's own work, her own sweat. Exhaustion is a comfort during this time, a reminder of a larger purpose than the simple spite that has kept her alive for so long. This tomb that she stands within, that she alone takes care of, is all she has left of her people.

It is not a tomb for them, as one might expect. It is a tomb for another, older presence. A once living planet, a celestial, left to turn cold and weary within the stone walls of a suffocated world. Quill runs gentle fingers along the worn inscriptions of an ancient sphere, tracing its patterns like clockwork. The energy within has dimmed since she has last visited. She has known it would happen, that the life would fade out of this place too, but she is much less than prepared for it to happen at this moment.

Limbs stiffen as she presses her palm harder against the rapidly cooling stone, heat escaping and draining through the ground, away from her. It takes all her strength not to break, as she presses her body against the one connection she is losing.

Did you create me?

Ghost whirls on the spot, a vengeful response, spite, on the tip of her tongue, only to choke on it as she meets the eyes of the one who had spoken. Their energy is familiar, yet they look nothing as the images depict. Another gaze bores into hers, insistent on being seen, and Mockingbird looks past the one in front of her to find Solace with an uncharacteristically shy and almost wistful expression on his face. The world falters, spins in front of her as her legs give out, the energy and emotion of the newcomer overwhelming her to tears, more so than even Solace ever had, and blurring her vision into fog and blank thoughts; Mockingbird just barely notices Solace's arms around her and his look of concern before she gives in and allows herself to be swept away.