The one that haunts us (Greg's past)

The atmosphere in the Diamonds’ palace was always one of overwhelming scale. Everything was too large, too white, and far too quiet. Steven Universe sat on the edge of a massive, cushioned platform that served as a bed for a being five times his size. He was currently visiting Homeworld to discuss the new "Era 3" educational curriculum, but for the moment, he was just a teenager looking for a snack.

He reached into his backpack, his hand brushing past a stray ukulele string and a half-eaten bag of Chaps. His fingers closed around something hard, rectangular, and plastic.

"What’s this?" Steven murmured, pulling the object out.

It was an old VHS tape. It looked ancient, its black casing scuffed and covered in a thin layer of Earth dust that had somehow survived the trip through warp space. There was a piece of masking tape stuck to the front with words scrawled in thick, hurried black marker: **DO NOT PLAY.**

Steven frowned. He knew his dad’s handwriting, and this wasn't it. This looked like it had been written by someone in a state of absolute panic. Normally, Steven was the kind of person who respected boundaries—he had spent enough time dealing with the fallout of Rose Quartz’s secrets to know that some things were hidden for a reason.

But the curiosity was a physical itch. Was this a message from his mom? A lost memory of the Rebellion? Or something his dad had accidentally tucked away years ago?

"I shouldn't," Steven whispered to the empty, cavernous room. "But... what if it's important?"

He looked around. In the corner of the room stood a repurposed Gem technology console that he had modified months ago to interface with Earth electronics—a hobby he’d picked up to pass the time during long diplomatic stays. He walked over, his boots clicking softly on the polished floor, and slid the tape into the slot.

Near the grand, arched entrance to the chamber, two figures shimmered into view, pressing themselves against the shadows of the doorway. Yellow Pearl stood rigid, her hands clasped behind her back, her expression one of professional indifference. Beside her, Blue Pearl leaned forward, her long hair obscuring one eye, her gaze fixed on the small organic being at the console.

"He is engaging with primitive data storage," Yellow Pearl whispered, her voice a sharp, clinical hiss. "We should inform the Diamonds that the Prince is distracted."

"Wait," Blue Pearl murmured, her voice soft and melodic. "Look at the screen."

The monitor flickered to life with a burst of white noise and static. Then, the image stabilized.

It wasn't a battlefield or a Gem temple. It was a messy living room with wood-paneled walls and a shag carpet that looked aggressively orange. A young boy, no older than seven or eight, sat on the floor. He had thick, dark hair and a bright, gap-toothed smile.

"Dad?" Steven breathed, pressing his face closer to the screen.

It was Greg DeMayo, long before he became Greg Universe. He was surrounded by a fleet of plastic spaceships and little green soldiers. He was making "pew-pew" noises, his imagination clearly light-years away from the suburban house he was trapped in. He looked happy, but there was a frantic energy to his play, as if he were trying to cram an entire lifetime of fun into a few minutes.

On the screen, the young Greg picked up a toy rocket and launched it into the air. "To the stars!" he shouted, his voice high and clear. "I'm going to see the whole galaxy!"

In the doorway, Blue Pearl’s eyes widened. She felt a strange, cold prickle at the base of her form. The face of the child was different, yes, but the spirit—the way he looked at the idea of the stars with such longing—it struck a chord of memory. She remembered a man with a tan and a guitar, standing on a beach, talking about the beauty of the cosmos despite his fragility.

"Yellow," Blue Pearl whispered. "That... that is the creature. The one the Diamond brought to the Zoo."

Yellow Pearl scoffed, though she didn't look away. "All organics look the same, Blue. They are soft, temporary, and loud."

Suddenly, the mood of the video shifted. The sound of a heavy door slamming echoed through the recording, distorted by the old microphone. Young Greg froze, his toys falling from his hands. The joy drained from his face instantly, replaced by a look of sheer, paralyzing terror.

"GREGORY ARTHUR DEMAYO!"

The voices—one a booming, gravelly male and the other a sharp, shrill female—screamed in unison. They weren't just angry; they sounded possessive, a wall of noise that seemed to vibrate the very plastic of the tape.

Two shadows fell over the boy on the screen. They were large, looming figures, their faces obscured by the angle of the camera, which seemed to have been hidden on a bookshelf.

"How many times have we told you?" the male voice roared. "No toys in the parlor! No dreaming! You have a future to prepare for, a life of respectability!"

"You're a DeMayo!" the female voice shrieked. "You will not waste your life on these... these fantasies!"

The young Greg scrambled backward, his hands held up defensively. "I-I was just playing! I'm sorry! Please!"

Hands reached into the frame—rough, grabbing hands. They snatched the toys away, snapping the plastic wings off the rocket. The boy began to sob, a sound so raw and broken that Steven felt a physical pain in his chest.

"Help! Someone help me!" the boy cried, his voice cracking as he was dragged out of the frame.

The camera was knocked over in the scuffle, capturing one last shot of the empty, wood-paneled room as the sounds of shouting and sobbing faded into the distance. Then, the screen cut to black.

The silence that followed in the Homeworld palace was deafening.

Steven stood frozen, his hand still resting on the console. His breath hitched. He had always known his dad had a rough childhood—Greg had hinted at the restrictions, the pressure to be someone he wasn't. But seeing it... hearing that scream for help...

"He was just a kid," Steven whispered, his voice trembling. "He was just a kid and they... they broke his things. They tried to break him."

He felt a surge of protective fury, but it was quickly washed away by a profound sadness. He thought of his dad now—relaxed, kind, living in a van, and loving the stars. He realized then that Greg’s entire life as "Universe" wasn't just a whim. It was a desperate, heroic escape from a prison that didn't have bars, only expectations.

At the doorway, Yellow Pearl remained motionless. Her yellow eyes were narrowed, analyzing the data. "Such inefficiency," she muttered, though her voice lacked its usual bite. "To expend so much energy suppressing a single unit of their own kind. It seems the organics are just as prone to the flaws of the old Diamond ways as we were."

Blue Pearl didn't respond. She was staring at the black screen, her hands trembling slightly. She remembered the way Blue Diamond had wept for Pink, how she had plucked humans from the Earth to "preserve" them in a cage of comfort. She remembered the man she had seen on Earth, the one who had charmed a Diamond with his simple, honest grief.

She realized now that the man had been running his entire life. He hadn't just been a "specimen." He was a survivor of a different kind of war.

"He called for help," Blue Pearl said, her voice barely audible. "And no one came."

Yellow Pearl turned to her, surprised by the tone. "It is a recording, Blue. It happened cycles ago. The creature is grown now. He is... well, he is the father of the half-Gem."

"I know," Blue Pearl said, finally looking away from the screen. "But I wonder... how many of them are still crying out? How many of them are still trapped in those small, dark rooms?"

Steven suddenly turned around, sensing their presence. He wiped his eyes quickly with his sleeve, trying to regain his composure. "Oh. Hey, guys. I didn't see you there."

Yellow Pearl stepped forward, her heels clicking sharply. "Steven Universe. We were sent to escort you to the Great Diamond Authority's briefing on the Kindergarten restoration project."

Steven looked back at the tape player, then at the Pearls. He looked tired—older than he had ten minutes ago. "Yeah. Okay. Just... give me a second."

He ejected the tape and held it in his hands. He thought about destroying it, about burying that pain so his dad would never have to see it again. But then he remembered why he was here. He was here to change things. He was here to make sure that no one—Gem or human—had to live in a world where they couldn't be themselves.

"Blue?" Steven asked, looking at the Pearl in the blue tunic.

"Yes, Steven?"

"Does Homeworld have a place for... for things that shouldn't be forgotten? Even if they're sad?"

Blue Pearl looked at him, her expression softening into something deeply empathetic. "We have the archives, Steven. But perhaps... perhaps it is best kept with someone who understands its value."

Steven nodded, tucking the tape deep into his bag. He walked toward them, his shoulders squared. "You're right. I'm going to keep it. To remind me why we're doing all this."

As they walked down the long, shimmering hallway, Yellow Pearl stayed a few paces ahead, her mind already returning to schedules and logistics. But Blue Pearl lingered near Steven’s side.

"He was very brave," she whispered.

Steven looked up at her. "Who? My dad?"

"To dream of the stars when his world was so small," she replied. "It is a very Diamond-like ambition. But he did it with a heart of glass."

Steven smiled weakly. "He’s still dreaming, Blue. He just does it on his own terms now."

They moved through the palace, three very different beings bound by a single moment of shared history, leaving the echoes of a child's cry behind in the silence of the dark. Steven knew he would talk to his dad when he got home. He wouldn't mention the tape—not yet—but he would give him a hug. A long, tight hug that said everything the little boy on the screen had needed to hear.

*You’re safe now. And the stars are yours.*