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They sit on the grass, Will and Robot, the tufts of green trees situated around them, occasionally swaying when the wind plays amongst them, leaving in its wake a cool and tranquil air. Night has long made its leisurely approach, bringing with it the Alpha Centauri moons, with their sweet gaze, bask the lands in soft white hues. Somewhere afar, the people of civilization scatter about.
Will holds in his hands a single book, its pages adorned with art, every piece telling the story of each space-bound event, shared toil, and character of importance. It was gifted to the Robinsons by a fellow and well-known artist from the 24th colonist group.
“...And this is the Resolute,” the teen says, pointing to the drawing of the ship. “It looks so real, you know? As if it were an exact picture.” Even the distant stars, despite their insignificance, were painted in great detail.
Beside him is Robot, who, too, gazes at the drawing, the lights emitting from his visor providing visual aid.
Will flips another page. It is a drawing of his former home, Earth, painted green and blue, in addition to the white swirls that represent the clouds. Beside the planet is the gray Moon, in which the widely-known American flag is embedded. Will smiles softly, a million memories flowing through him, all speaking of a time during which Earth’s air had not yet been dirtied with pollution, when his life was animated by school and homework, holidays and family dinners; a time during which normalcy once reigned in its entirety.
He turns to Robot. “This is Earth; I lived here for most of my life. At the time of the crash, the air was mostly dirty, and sort of stunk a little.” Like a flash, it came to him, the recollection of how the air caused an uncomfortable tickling of his lungs. Many, like him, had to wear masks for the sensation to begone.
“I complained about it a lot, and almost hated living there, but it was home. For years.” Oh, what he would give to relieve such homebound moments one last time; no longer do the memories of soiled air deter him from reminiscing the many relishments spent on Earth.
After a moment of gazing at Earth, he flips to another page. His breath hitches at the sight.
The robot’s lights illuminate the drawing astoundingly, shining light onto the artist’s impression: a robot, four-armed and bronze in color, its spine adorned with spikes. Its faceplate teems with swirling stars shining with a furious crimson.
Robot stiffens.
Will gulps. “Scarecrow.” The name is uttered in a pained whisper.
Like a malady, Robot’s feelings of grief and fury – their severity exceeding the boy’s bereavement – bleed into him; they heavy his chest as they pour life into something wretched and virulent.
A single tear drips down his cheek. “I miss him.” Not as much as Robot, however: his comradeship with Scarecrow spanned thousands, perhaps millions, of years, during which they experienced together every battle and misgiving.
A comradeship that was cut short when a leader dug cruel claws into the head of Scarecrow, digging within information that would cost the lives of hundreds.
(A part of Will is relieved that he didn’t witness Scarecrow’s perish; it would have haunted every dream brought to him.)
Then Robot’s hand, heavy but comforting, is on his shoulder. Though his lights have dimmed and slowed in their twirling dance, the Robot says, “Hope, Will Robinson.”
Hope. For a moment, Will is on their battered Jupiter, once full of scared children, having left behind their parents and a falling Resolute. He remembers Robot walking up to him in an almost mournful way when discovering Scarecrow was not with them.
He remembers asking, "Do you know what hope is?”
A moment of silence passed.
Then: "Yes, Will Robinson."
Suddenly he returns to the stars and the land and his comforting Robot.
Hope, the word echoes in his mind. Hope for what? That, perhaps, somewhere in the cosmos, on a forsaken ship or planet, there lay Scarecrow’s body, maybe intact and able to have life seeped back into it again?
(Is it possible?)
Hope for Scarecrow’s sacrifice to be acknowledged, remembered, and spoken of?
It remains uncertain, all of it meant for only the future to answer.
(That, the unknown, does not instill fear in him this time, but acceptance.)
He smiles tearfully and leans his head on the alien’s shoulder.
“Yes, Robot. Hope.”