They know that their name is Connie. Or maybe Steven.

They know that they are male. Or maybe female. The quick check they make is inconclusive.

They know their date of birth. Except there's two of them, and they don't know which is the right one.

Really, they conclude, stuffing every last scrap of paper back into the rucksack, they don't know much.

They know to keep calm.

They know what amnesia is, and they know that they will overcome it - by remembering or by retracing their footsteps, they don't know.

They know that they have themself, and that they love themself - what they did to deserve that, they don't know.

They don't know much, and that's okay.

They don't know what they're sitting on, so they shuffle away from it, wincing as their head pounds like... well, they don't know an appropriate simile.

They know that they're smart though. How else would they use words like 'appropriate' and 'simile' in their regular, non-scholarly thoughts? Especially with such a splitting headache.

Everything aches, they realise, not just their head. They suddenly know that a bit too well.

The thing they were sitting on is unfamiliar, but that makes sense. It looks a little bit like a platform, or a pedestal. It's cut like a gemstone of some kind, but it's opaque and sort of white-ish. Can pearls be cut like that? Are there any pearls in the world big enough to be cut like that?

The word Pearl brings with it a strange pang. They don't know what that is.

They don't know what the pedestal does, but they did just wake up on top of it sporting total amnesia, so they're not too eager to test it.

It has a deep crack running through the middle, the jagged edges crumbling a little into the crevasse. Is it broken? Was it supposed to do anything in the first place, or was it just an inert platform?

They turn and take in the sights around them, frown turning into a pout. They know how to survive in the wild, but the wild isn't playing fair. How is anyone supposed to eat rocks?

Big rocks.

Not rocks at all, actually. They can see some sort of sigil-script situated aside the sun-like... um...

Aw, they were this close to a full alliterative sentence. Oh well.

The point is, this rubble isn't natural. That probably means that they're in a ruined building of some kind, which is why there's no wildlife here. But if they go far enough out, hopefully they should hit some kind of natural food source.

They gather up what must be their things - a sheathed, pink, single-edged sword; a backpack full of odd knickknacks and complete with bedroll; and... the cooked body of some kind of creature? It's too well-done to tell what it used to be, and they probably wouldn't remember anyway - and clip it all into place on their back. Except the creature, which is bland but filling enough to keep them going for a while.

The ache isn't going away, but they need to find food. That they had some with them when they came here is a good sign - it means there are more of the creatures reasonably close by.

They just need to find them.

Even in all their pain, surviving is easier than they thought it would be.

Part of them resists hurting the creatures here, but they need the protein. So as a compromise, they slice up those odd creatures that can live without their tails, and eat said tails instead of the whole creatures.

The creatures here aren't familiar, but that doesn't surprise them. They have amnesia after all.

They need to rest often. Sometimes the bodily ache becomes unbearable and they waste time curled up in the hammock, blubbering openly through the cramps.

It makes them angry at something. They're amazing. Even after just a few days they know that better than anyone, not that there's anyone to compare to. They're smart yet compassionate, realistic yet optimistic, strong enough in both body and mind to push past their hurt and do what they must, yet mindful enough to never stretch their limits too hard and injure themself. They don't deserve this pain, none of them does.

What evil, horrid person left them stranded here? Who destroyed their no-doubt beautiful, hard-earned memories without a second thought?

They're furious.

But the rage isn't helping, so slowly, they let it go. Each breath releases a little more. They like to think it could reach the culprit, dancing on the wind, make their life just a smidge more difficult.

They know that there probably isn't a culprit. After reviewing what little information they have, they have to concede that this was surely an accident. But it's a comforting thought, that they might now be more safe from the bad guy, because they took the time to be angry.

Emotions are fun!

A new wave comes with every new discovery, every repetition, every passing thought. Even when the rest of the world appears to stand still, their emotions coil and stretch, spin together and drift apart.

It's fascinating to watch them go by. It's cathartic to act on them. They can be energizing or exhausting, but they're always so interesting!

It's been a month or two - they don't know for certain, the days feel shorter than they should - and they've gotten used to life in the wilderness.

They've learned how to trap, slay and skin all of the most common creatures - their resistant part has grown slowly more accepting of the importance of their own survival. They've learned how start a fire, how to boil-purify water without losing too much of it to steam, and how to separate the salt to season their meals with a little familiar comfort. How to shave with a sword, how to build, how to make a facsimile of a toothbrush, how to pack up their things and move on, day after day.

They've learned not to trust their muscle memory. They always tried to block at first, and now their arms are littered with scars of all shapes and sizes.

They've learned their limits, often the hard way. And they've learned the cause of said limits.

Their gemstone is broken.

What exactly the gemstone is, they don't know. They know that humans don't have gemstones usually, but they have some conflicting impressions of people with gemstones.

They're magical people with powers. They're family. Enemies. Friends, teammates, mysteries.

They don't separate these thoughts. The conflict is interesting to watch, and it's strangely comforting, knowing that despite this disagreement they can still act normally.

So what they know about their gemstone is inconclusive. They know it's some kind of power source, because it glows sometimes, and that's when they feel strong enough to move, hunt, live. It's connected to their mind, since they can purposely cause the glow, if they think hard enough about it.

It might be connected to their memories too, if breaking the gem is what caused their memory loss.

They've tried binding the halves together, and they don't know if it did anything, but it's a moot point anyway because the harness needs to be so tight that it digs into their stomach and hurts even more. They don't wear it, but they keep it handy just in case something comes up.

They know that the gemstone is pink, and that must mean something. But they don't know what. The only pink gem they can think of is rose quartz, but their gemstone seems too...

Too pink.

Do sapphires come in pink? Emeralds? Heck, even diamonds? They know diamonds aren't always white, but what other colors they can be is something that they don't know.

And in what world are ordinary gemstones magical?

They inspect the gem closer, using a dewdrop as a lens and a silvery lake as their mirror, and what they find is an answer. Well, the beginnings of one.

A circuit.

It's so tiny that it's invisible to the naked eye, but it's there. Tiny lines, channels for something - light? - to travel through, built into the very structure of the mineral.

There are more, but the one they find first holds sentimental value. It looks like a heart from their angle, a reminder to always love themself. As if they'd ever need to be told.

It glows, always. Dim, but there. They almost wonder what would happen if it broke, but they can't bear to find out.

Even as they continue travelling across the land in search of civilisation, they begin experimenting.

They sigh, content, as they shrug on their newly-made clothing. It's more like leafy, leathery armor than the tee and jeans that have long since been worn threadbare and packed up for good, but it's easy to replicate (this is the dozenth set so far), easy to move around in, and it protects them from brambles and creatures alike.

Today's armor is a little different, with a heart design woven into the chestpiece. Because today is a little different.

They've figured out how to brighten the heart-circuit.

How they do it is ironic. They think of everything they've done. And, like breaking a heart, they separate it.

Killing. They had to, the tails weren't enough to sustain them. They didn't want to.

Cleaning. They were moving on anyway. The wildlife didn't deserve to be hurt like that.

Murals. They were fascinating. Why couldn't they be easier to understand?

The pedestal. It was dangerous. They need to go back for it!

Gemstones.

Distance. Mystery. Enemies. Tutors.

Closeness. Family. Friends. Teammates.

Their gem glows brighter, encompasses them-

They open their eyes.

In front of them kneels, alert and cautious, an on-guard teenager. Female.

"Connie," they realise.

For the first time in a long time, they don't know much.

They open their eyes.

In front of them sits, cross-legged and wondrous, a bright-eyed young teen. Male.

"Steven," they think aloud.

For the first time in a long time, they don't know much.

"I'm split," they say together. Not upset, curious.

"I'm Steven," Steven says.

"My name is Connie," Connie replies.

They know that already, but introducing themself to themself seems important.

They break out into smiles - not just one, two smiles! - and lunge for each other, meeting in the middle with two whoofs of air and a harmony of laughter.

Their gem, on Steven's belly, glows brightly, and they take a moment to think of all the things they did, they disagreed on.

But Steven only has one part of the thoughts. Connie has the other part. They don't need to separate them.

They're... so different from each other.

But they still go together so well.

They're amazing.

They never go far from each other. Sometimes they're themself, and sometimes they're Steven and Connie, but they're never apart.

They always hurt, as themself or as Steven and Connie. They don't mind. They have themself and themselves for support.

They're so different.

Steven cries, cares, goofs and jokes. Connie sometimes does those too, but not as much.

Connie panics, fights, plays the straight one. Steven sometimes does those too, but not as much.

Steven is artsy, spontaneous, incredible. Connie is practical, reliable, unbelievable.

Together, they travel and play and laugh and survive.

But most importantly, they live and they love.

They want a name.

Connie and Steven have names. Connie and Steven together is them. So they should have a together-name.

Conniven. Ste...onnie? Stonnie.

That sounds dumb, they laugh.

Connie is short for Constance, right? and Steven is short for... Steven.

Constaven. Consteven? Constaven?

No.

Conven. Convance. Coven.

Kevin?

KEVIN...

No, not Kevin! Ugh! Even considering it brings yesterday's lunch back into their mouth. They don't know how, but that name has been sullied.

Steven-nie.

Steve-onnie.

Stevonnie?

What a perfect name!

They don't know if that was what they were called when they were together, before. But it seems like something they might have once been.

Even if they never return to their old life, they're happy just being Stevonnie.

They congratulate themself with a proud smile.

Stevonnie congratulates themself with a proud smile.

"Goodnight, Stevonnie," they say to themself with an odd sense of wonderment.

"Goodnight, Stevonnie," they reply to themself with a strange feeling of occasion.

Tonight, even the dull throb from the crack on their gem can't keep them awake.

They've gotten pretty good at cooking.

There aren't any humans here, which sucks because it means that this isn't their home planet. When they get back home (when, not if - they know that they will), they'll have to relearn all the cuts of meat they can use, all the little tricks to make each meal turn out just right.

They doubt any large creatures on their world even have exoskeletons like skitterbugs, or the same blubbery body-structure as a beak-blob. They doubt there are any fruits as big and quenching as the pink-green. How are they supposed to cook such tasty dishes when they return?

Some meals, they prefer to eat as Steven or Connie, each with different tastes from each other, and from Stevonnie.

Connie enjoys tea with red-yellow juice as a sweetener. Fried, expertly-seasoned skitterbug. Walkafish on a spike.

Steven prefers plant food - whole red-yellows, sliced green-purple-blues, pure pink-green juice.

Connie can't stomach beak-blob and Steven feels too guilty to follow through with eating them, but Stevonnie can power through the parts they don't like, and beak-blob is actually pretty great for them together. It helps that even a single one is big enough to provide food and other resources for days at a time if they preserve it properly.

It's when they're cooking beak-blob, separated for the moment, that Steven picks up a broad blade of grass on a whim.

Music can be found anywhere, they know. They haven't heard music since before, but it can be anywhere.

Anywhere.

Feeling a little silly - but who is there to laugh but themself and themselves? - Steven pulls the leaf into position and blows.

It doesn't do anything the first time, except to make Connie giggle, and that's worth any effort. So Steven tries again.

Again.

Again.

And Steven succeeds.

Mid Low Mid Low Mid Low High Higher High,

You can count on-

"There's lyrics!"

Connie gasps and the beak-blob is forgotten - it needs to boil for a while now anyway. They nestle on the grass together and Connie slowly whistles out the notes Steven played before.

As they do, the rhythm is caught and words accompany.

"If you're evil and you're on the rise,

You can count on the four of us taking you down,

'Cause we're good and evil ne-ver beats us,

We'll win the fight and then go out for pizzas!

We

Are the Crystal Gems!

We'll always save the day!

And if you think we can't,

We'll always find a way!

That's why the people of this world

Believe in

Garnet, Amethyst, And Pearl,

And Steven..."

They both know the song, but Steven knows it better. It's amazing to think that at one point they must have been entirely separate people.

Steven and Connie. Separate people.

It's difficult to imagine. Scary to imagine.

Ingredients and harmony,

we mix together perfectly,

But are these tunes a memory?

And when we make it off the globe,

From this world to the one at home,

Could we bear to live alone?

They've been injured.

Not like the small scrapes they always get across their legs. Those are fine. Those heal.

This slash across their left side? Maybe it won't.

Crimson pours from them, and they feel a strange, hysterical urge to paint a cryptic warning on the nearest tree. Or even just a bloody handprint.

They wipe their tears off with the base of their palm, but as they make to carry on running for their life, the ache of their gem blossoms into a blinding starburst of agony, and they're forced to plant their rear on the nearest tree trunk, grasping at their side.

They don't know why that beak-blob was acting so violently. They only ever do that if their children are threatened, and Stevonnie hasn't hunted those ever since they realised they weren't fully grown - near the beginning of their journey, probably close to four years ago now.

The sharp pain lets up (the ache doesn't), and they find the strength to throw their weight away from the tree and stumble further into the woods. Beak-blobs don't like the sharp points of branches, so it shouldn't follow them from here. The woven rope they left behind is more or less confirmation - to the beak-blob, it looks like a stickabeetle's sticky, razor-sharp webbing.

They catch their stomach on a branch in their haste and involuntarily freeze up as it comes a mere half-inch from their injury. They carefully snap the twig with a few fingers, and only then do they feel safe to give themself a once-over.

They're... fine?

The cut's still there, but it's smaller. Their blood is draining slower. It'll scar, but it's not life-threatening like it was before.

They lick at their blood-soaked hands. It's a bit gross, but they need to retain the iron, especially since they won't be active enough to hunt for a while.

What changed? Why is it healed?

They replay the scene in their mind. The lancing pain, the panicked scramble, the rucksack they left behind-

They needed that- Stay on track!

Running, sprinting for the forest. Stings on legs, scrapes on arms. Agony, gem ache, streaming tears. Wiping them away. Hand on wound-

Wait... hand on wound. Tears on hand. Gem ache.

They have no shortage or tears, so they experimentally drag some up onto their bloodied hand and transfer them to a small fleck of damaged skin on their other arm. No point infecting their big injury if they're wrong about this.

The blemish fades away before their eyes.

They wipe away more tears and slap them on top of the red. Under their morbidly curious gaze, it seals itself, leaving a single line of raised tissue. Like...

A zipper. Like the one on their rucksack.

They need to go back for it. They can't, they've lost where they are already. They'll never survive without it! It's okay, they survived without being able to heal until today. It's not-!

It is okay. They have themself.

As the crack in their gem is sealed together under its own power, the ache subsides. For the first time they ever remember, they feel no pain.

And if the crack ever returns, they have plenty of tears to spare.

They know a lot more now.

They know now why the beak-blob attacked them.

They know now a little of what their gem does.

They know now why they love themself.

They know now that they'll always be together, that nothing can break them apart.

They know now when they were born. That they're five years old.

They know now that they are male and female. And yet neither.

They know now who they are:

Stevonnie.

A relationship, a conversation, an experience.

But more than that, a promise. To never look back, keep walking forward. Love every day because every day is a day with themself.

And, as they look upon the broken pedestal that started it all, they know.

They know now, that they need to keep their promise. Keep walking forward.

They cry, and the pedestal is restored.

And forward they walk, just as they walked around the world.