Chapter Text
The first thing I see when I open my eyes is a blinding light that spreads to absorb through all my senses. The room smells sterile, and the sheets surrounding me feel scratchy and professional. I’m not on the ship anymore. Everything is too bright, too noisy, nothing is comforting anymore. I have no idea where I am, who I'm with and if this place was even in the list of acceptable places to go.
Dr. Grace had very specific instructions when it came to leaving in any sort of way. Meetings were always acceptable to leave for because he held most of them himself, food runs were okay if the agent in charge of the food brought it up to Grace personally and they plan a week-long trip around it, and there was even a time where Dr. Grace felt so bad for clumping everyone together with little room to spare, that he treated everyone to something small that allowed them to get off the ship. Though, in my opinion it was more of a waste of time than anything. Sure,it sucks being cramped up all the time and never getting to do anything for yourself, but the world is ending, it’s not like we can postpone it until we feel up for taking it on.
The light kicked up again, this time sending a strong wave of dread down my spine as I prepared myself for opening my eyes. It was going to hurt a lot, but never opening my eyes was something I couldn’t risk at a time like this. A robotic voice echoed through the chambers as I began to stretch awake.
“Patient Three; Dub–Ler–Sha–Stratt, Eva. Awake.”
I almost jumped out of my own skin. A robot was speaking as if I would understand it. I flinched as it stumbled through names like a rehearsed act gone wrong. That didn’t make any sense to me, if a robot was capable of speaking in the first place, why would it stumble through identifying a patient? Bad design choices from all angles of the concept. That's what it is! I remember it now. We were testing out the aiding hand for the astronauts who would be boarding the Hail Mary. Dr. Grace wanted to be thorough with his findings, so he had fought for the ability to test it on both a male and a female subject. I happened to be the female subject, as I had the cleanest history of everyone, even while we involved the police records from my stupid highschool days. They did have a worry about my tattoo, but I assured them that the effects
It has taken on my body are long since gone.
I don’t think my tattoo could be classified as a tattoo anymore. I was young and broke when I booked the appointment, and I was trying to look cool for others. I wanted to get an oak tree right above my heart, a symbol of deep resilience and a sign of hope for new beginnings, but it was done in a beat down place with rhodants running all over the place and maggots sitting in plain sight over roadkill. It was disgusting but to a stupid, drunk teen that would never back down, none of that mattered anymore.
I went in there expecting it to hurt, a bunch of needles were destined to hurt, but the tattoo didn’t just hurt. The pain shot through in ways I had never known. The artist had been hunched over, elbowing me in the ribs with his full weight as he tried to reach for my chest. The needle was pushed too far, too fast. It had ripped through my skin as he moved the tattoo machine. He hadn’t used a stencil to mark anything out and the gun had slipped from his hands multiple times.
Never once did he clean the needle or sterilize anything after he dropped the machine over and over, and he even nicked himself as he dragged the needle throughout my chest. The end result was a scarred and bloodied mess. It was bruised and bleeding in multiple areas and the skin surrounding it became swollen with blood that couldn't be bled out. Nothing ever fully recovered after that. The area stayed scarred and ugly and there came moments where it would randomly bleed throughout the day because it could never fully heal right. I hate it. The symbol of hope I had so longed for was a bloodied and bruised mess for a title that never truly mattered in the real world.
Waking up from the coma, nothing feels too out of the ordinary. I can still breathe and I’m not in a state of panic, which is a good sign. I take a calming, deep breath as my eyes slowly open. My eyes immediately land on the tall blonde leaning over my bed softly, his eyes a calm in the storm of everything around me. I want to do nothing but run my hands through the soft strands of blonde hair and fix his stupid glasses that never seem to lay right.
I take one final breath before I push to right myself on the bed. The pressure stings all throughout my left arm but I’ve spent years perfecting my poker face for a reason. When I’m finally sitting up, I shake my arm as subtly as possible. I already told them my arm is fine. If I do anything to make them consider otherwise I’d back back on the cold streets where rats aren’t afraid of fighting you for food. It’s not worth the risk. If I can pretend for a few days longer nobody will have any suspicion that it would randomly spike up again. I just hope to remember to wear extra wraps over my shoulder. I’m useless if I just start bleeding out like a stuck pig and I will never be useless. The end of the world won’t just pause for your own convenience, it takes until there is nothing else to take.