Before heading out the door with his bag strapped snugly to the the small of his back, Grant sprays an old-style aerosol mist on the exposed skin of his hands, face, and neck; while the city’s eco-friendly, translucent overhead netting provides superficial protection from the harshness of the UV rays, it by no means eliminates the issue entirely. Luckily, the high-power sunblock he uses every day prevents any serious burns.

“Temperature ranges in the three hundred degrees,” the AI, in a voice that would sound wary if it bore any ounce of sentience, informs Grant and Micah as they apply their sunblock. “In Kelvin, of course.”

“Sarcasm?” Micah asks, voice teasing. “You know, you could just use Centigrade to accommodate us provincial folk. Or even Fahrenheit. Kelvin is just too… weird.”

Grant eyes Micah, a funny grin playing on his face. “And the most accurate temperature to ever be calculated on Earth. If anything, Fahrenheit is the weirdest. It’s based on relativity, and nothing else.”

“Converting 310.3 degrees Kelvin to Old World Standard temperatures. Confirmed. 99 degrees Fahrenheit or 37 degrees Centigrade.”

Micah smiles happily as he replaces the sunblock to the compartment by the front door. “Sweet! I live for these cooler days.” He swipes a stripe up the wall in front of him with a practiced ease, and the built-in terminal appears as a blue glow against white. “Activate “Leave.” Expected return arrival is, as always, the usual. Security level two.”

Grant lifts his leg up beneath him so he can reach the side of his shoe, and there he presses the touch-sensitive button; in a three-second succession the laces along the sides of his feet tighten to accommodate the size and shape of his feet, and comfortable latch right at the ankle, leaving his shoe safely in place. He does the same to the other shoe. “All ready?” He asks, and Micah gives a two-fingered salute.

“All ready. But I think that’s my line. I mean, after all, today is the beginning of the rest of your life.”

A beat of silence takes over the otherwise content atmosphere, and Grant’s eyes go glassy. “Hm…” He tucks a curly brown lock behind his ear as he gazes in wonder at the door, the only visible obstacle between him and his future. “I don’t know. I don’t think I’ll ever be more ready.”

Micah slings an arm heavily over his son’s shoulder and presses a thumb firmly over the Release button, and the front door, as if it had never been there at all, slides open with a hiss. “That’s my boy. You’ll do great things, you know.”

Grant’s grin becomes tight, but he says nothing and lets his dad lead him into the front yard and down the path dotted with solar-powered red lights. They’re off now, of course, but they’re a dark black and serve as direction markers that lead into the city. The trees surround the lights like guardians. It’s one of Grant’s favorite parts about Molt and the society the immigrant Moltesians have integrated onto it; the line between manmade and natural is so fine that they both live in peace.

A couple passes Grant and Micah on the path, which is well-worn from everyday foot traffic, and the two are thoroughly engrossed in one another, arms and hands entwined and eyes glued to one another when they should probably be watching where they’re going. A petal, bright aqua and roughly edged in the shape a five-pointed star, floats delicately from a tree and lands perfectly in the hand of one of the women, her arm just happening to pause dramatically in a very gesture-heavy story. She blinks lazily down at the velvety little thing and, in tandem with her blinking, smiles slowly and steadily. She tucks the stem of the flower behind the ear of her companion, who smiles up through her lashes shyly.

“Hm,” The petal-catcher starts, voice thick with accent. “Vohnez n cdetonoh’t fultochu’m tohnten.”

While the couple passes, the phrase sticks with Grant. It isn’t uncommon for the native Terrans of Molt to be fluent in more than just Terran Standard (in fact, quite the opposite), and so Grant isn’t ignorant of its significance. He has taken a particular liking to Nevitian.

Life is full of happy coincidences.

~ . . . ~

His shoes aren’t fancy. It’s such a silly, petulant thought for him to have, but Aremant just stares sullenly at his normal slip-ons. It probably isn’t really the shoe he’s glaring at. He doesn’t like braving the heat. He dreads it.

“Temp?”

“310.3 degrees Kelvin, Aremant. Do not forget to apply protection to any exposed skin.”

Aremant, eyes downcast as he Releases the front door, swallows thickly. “Already done. I couldn’t help but notice a distinct avoidance of the word “again.””

“I am only here to help you, Aremant. I do not wish for you to suffer unduly.” The AI is still thoroughly monotone. For this reason, the AI’s words don’t particularly comfort Aremant.

Aremant hums. “Yeah. I know.” He snaps his security lock on manually with a few well-placed drags of his finger against his main terminal. “I’m off. Maybe I’ll come back with a communicator.” As the door shuts, his eyes slant up to stare just short of the sun (because of course he doesn’t feel like becoming blind today). “Or maybe another reason to stay inside.”

The trek to Mian Hoc -- otherwise known as the city’s main building -- is no more than 20 minutes from Aremant’s home. If there’s one thing he likes about this blazing hell of a planet, it’s the abundance of shade offered by the trees. The Terrans have long since learned their lesson of killing trees faster than they can grow them, and it’s obvious in the diverse communities of the Terran Union planets. Aremant is, although appalled by Old World Terran history, impressed by the Terrans’ overall maturation.

The city lights, however, are his favorite.

They glow a soft, gentle red that throws the nighttime world into a surreal fantasy, and although the hue and intensity both were forces to accustom to, Aremant loves how truly transcendent. The Terrans coined the sort of light, but didn't put them to their fullest potential use until the habitation of Molt, where they were, at the entranced request of the other members of the Terran Union, implemented as the main source of artificial nighttime lighting.

The thing  about the lights is that they're perfect for stargazing. The red doesn't conflict with the intensity of the celestial bodies visible planetside; they offer no glare, despite being just as bright and visible as the old, standard use of yellow lighting.

And to Aremant, for all the anger and upset he hides behind, space is every destined soul's first love. To have this gift of seeing the stars entirely uninhibited is... well.

He doesn't hate Molt quite as much as he lets on.

He only wishes it wasn't so damn hot.