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Hera lies in shallow water. Around her, the ocean sways in a breeze so slight its origin is unplacable, yet its effect is ubiquitous, providing a cool break from a hot sun.
Indeed, this place where Hera lays, where the ocean meets the sky, has little else but just those things. Only the sand beneath her, swaying with the current and her movement, as well as small almost insignificant organisms, interrupt the perfect blue picture of this horizon.
She’s alone in this place, separate from humanity. Her refuge from duty, and her refuge from fear.
Sometimes, she ventures into the deeper waters. There, she finds small animals she does not recognise. If she wanted to she could, of course, but she chooses not to, in this magical moment, in this magical space, spoil the wonder of little transparent jellies, crabs, and fish making their way in and out of underwater rock formations lit by the sun's reflection through the undulating surface, with any dose of reality.
From her view at the top of this scene, it almost takes the form of a small city, its inhabitants scurrying through towering stone structures and swaying algae. Instead of air, they live engulfed by clear water, rippling waves replacing the dome of the sky. They require nothing but what they have, sparkling sand and water only tainted by the salt that seasons it.
Hera remains in the deep metropolis for an immeasurable amount of time, somewhere between eternity and a single second, too long to be real, yet too short to be enough, caressed by warm sunrays and soft sand, her only companions silent sea dwellers, unconcerned by her presence.
Eventually, a sound reaches her, beneath the cover of her wet veil of salt water: the rhythmic clicks of a catamaran, and behind it, a muffled voice.
Rising from her bed of sand, Hera reaches the surface and finally sees, at the horizon line and advancing fast, the source of this disturbance. A small boat mounted by an undefinable figure races in her direction.
Suddenly the softness of the moment falls as the clacking of the catamaran becomes frantic and the voice louder. That's when she sees it. Behind the boat, a thick agglomeration of dark clouds rushes toward her, obstructing her clear blue sky.
As they grow closer, Hera feels the warm sun vanish, replaced by the chill of the shadowy storm clouds. Beneath her, the shallow water starts to retreat towards the incoming cataclysm as she begins to feel little feet scurrying over her. Looking down, she finds the crabs from the depths, small translucent bodies gray from the lack of light, rushing towards the water that’s leaving them behind. Around them, other beings, not so lucky as to be able to run to home, lie dying on the wet sand, and the creatures that before seemed to Hera to bring nothing but sparkling beauty appear to be provoking a stench that rips her head back to the disaster.
The boat is closer now, and she can perceive clearly the face of its captain as well as his voice calling out to her, the singular word he pronounces unmistakably.
“Hera!” he cries, “Hera!” again.
Over and over, her name reaches her, and, prying her sight from her friend’s unreadable face, she looks up to the sky, only to realise that it is no longer visible, replaced by a wall of water that seems to stab the ether, little gray bodies spotting its dark, muddy blue as it crashes into her.
That is the last she sees of her paradise before she wearily answers Eiffel's call.
“Oh, there you are!” he exclaims,” Got worried for a second… I thought you were always listening, what’s up with that?”
“I-I must ha-a-ve gotten distracted,” she manages to conjure up, lamely.
“Oh. Well, I was wondering, do you have any idea how to run this juicer I found? I didn’t think we had any fresh fruit here, but if this was just lying around we must, right?”
Shedding her alarm, she aids him in his meaningless task, grateful for the distraction from her grief that his voice provides her with. Later, she’ll tell him about her magical little ocean. Jokingly, he’ll answer:
“I guess we know what androids dream of now, I’ll have to call up old Dicky boy when I get back down to San Fransisco!”
She won’t answer him, but he won’t realise. Instead he’ll laugh at his own joke, and she will silently long for her lost heaven and its marvelous little creatures.