Chapter Text
Cold. That was the first thing Simon noticed.
Cold! he was cold! Oh, what a relief. He hated to say it, but he missed being cold. That thick, cloying heat had felt like it would never end. It had seeped into is very being, turning everything blurry. He hated being hot. He hated burning.
The next thing Simon noticed was the amount of pain he was in. It wasn't a new feeling, but the deep-seated sting made him curl over and groan. And it wasn't just on the surface. He hurt all the way down to his bones.
And then everything came rushing back. The sub. The betrayal. The eel. The stench of blood. Filling his nostrils, falling down his throat. He wanted to vomit, but his stomach was empty, so he resorted to dry heaving over the edge of the bed. The bed?
When had he been put in a bed?
Something clicked into place in his mind.
The sea? Not blood. Real, water. Light.
A saviour. Pulled him from the sub. Gentle voice. Kind eyes.
An angel?
He was dead. He had to be. He was dead and this was purgatory. That was the only explanation. The fucking eel had killed him and he was now where people go when they die.
Which, from looking around, was a sterile medical bay with a glass wall.
Medical bay.
Oh. Now he remembered. The angel had explained it all. He was on an alien planet. In a simulation of Earth on the planet. And the planet had rock-shaped aliens. And the angel could understand them. What was his name? Something benevolent. Something soft.
Simon stared down at where his arm used to be. He was absolutely covered in bandages, and even so, he could see blood coming through. So much blood. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping that when he opened them again everything would be okay. What even was okay? The prison cell? No, further back than that. Eden, maybe. The tree.
But that wasn't okay, either, was it? He was never allowed to be Simon. Always Brother, like everybody else was. Maybe he preferred the prison cell. He didn't have to talk to people in prison.
So maybe now was the best he'd ever had it. Fuck, that was miserable. The best he'd ever had it was sitting alone in a freezing cold room, missing an arm? Pathetic. He was pathetic.
He wiped away the water gathering in his eyes, noticing as he did the tube connected to his arm. It was attached to a bag containing a clear liquid. He thought maybe he recognised it from the medical bays in Eden. Those memories made him sick, so he pushed them down.
Simon wiggled his toes, bringing feeling back into his legs.
He looked around, trying to find a way out. The angel was not sitting where he had been before. There was something else there, though. A small, irregular shape, low to the ground and making a repetitive clicking sound. It was wrapped in some kind of material, that caught the light from the windows.
The windows! Sunlight!
Not real sunlight.
Focus, Simon.
He turned back to the odd shape. It was grey-green in colour, with cubic shapes jutting out at all angles. Was this one of the angel's 'Eridians'? It seemed to be similar to his blurry memories of the other ones. It stood up, on five legs, making a chorus of sounds similar to what he remembered of music.
Oh, music. He missed music. The little rock creature skittered about, heading for the door, then skidded to a halt, walked back the other way—without turning around, Simon noticed—picked something up and then sprinted back to the door, exiting.
Simon rested his head in his hand. That hurt. He raised his head up and that hurt, too. He groaned and took in the contraption hanging from the ceiling. He felt some kind of respect for it, but the reason escaped him. Why couldn't he remember anything? Why was he so terrible at everything? Everything was his fault. He should've just stayed behind that day, like they told him to. But no, Brother Simon had to insert himself where he wasn't needed, get in the way and fuck everything up.
Maybe if he hadn't tried to fix everything, his mother would still be—
"Simon?"
He jumped, heart rate skyrocketing in the beeping beside him.
It was the angel. Golden hair. Bright eyes. A gentle face.
"Welcome back to the world of the living," said the angel, pulling up the same chair he'd sat on before and smiling.
A smile.
That was something Simon hadn't seen in too long. It felt so foreign, but his heart jumped at it desperately.
"Not a talker, are you?"
Simon stared at the angel. He wished he could remember his name.
"So," the angel started. "I have been doing lots of thinking," he explained. "And I figured you probably hate it here, right? And this whole barrier was just a precautionary measure by the specialists, but we don't need it. So I thought, 'why don't we move Simon into a normal habitat?'"
Simon frowned.
"So you have some options," the angel said. "We can build an entirely new house for you, you get to design it and everything. But that does take a lot of time and you have to be willing to negotiate with the stubbornness of Eridian engineers."
Simon thought about it. Something to call his own? How long had it been since he had something that belonged to him? Had he ever had something he owned?
"Or, you can come and live in my house with me. It's more comfortable than here, and obviously I'll have to make some adjustments to the building so it's better for the both of us, but it'll be quicker and we can bring all the monitors and medical supplies, so that's not an issue," he went on, moving his hands a lot as he explained. "We have the original medical robot there, too, so you know you're in good hands!"
Simon squinted at him. "You want me. To live with you."
The angel paused. "I mean—only if you want to, but I don't want you to stay here."
Simon nodded slowly. "Okay."
"Great!" the angel clapped his hands. "That means I can figure out what's up with your digestive system," he said. "I've had some ideas, especially since Nettie has been giving me your scans."
"Nettie?" Simon asked, not remembering anybody named that.
"The Eridian that was just in here," the angel clarified. "Small, kind of hyperactive, greyish green in colour?"
"Oh."
The angel smiled and laughed a little. "It's one of the Eridians that swears on calling me 'Saviour Grace', which is, I mean, technically true I guess, but it always makes me feel self-conscious, you know?"
Simon nodded. He did not know. But he nodded anyway. He was mostly focused on how the Eridians called him Saviour Grace. A whole people, calling one person a saviour. And his name was Grace. Of course it was.
"Anyway," Grace went on. "I was thinking maybe you experienced some kind of weird physics that altered your physiology, I don't know, I'm not a physicist. But your body now prefers to ingest and absorb human blood instead of normal food."
Simon exhaled. Of course. Just his luck that he'd end up a monster. He deserved it, really, for killing all those people. This was just his past catching up with him.
"Now, you're not necessarily missing out here, because the only thing on the menu at the moment is Taumeoba slurry. We're working on cloning my own flesh in a lab, but that's a slow process, so this is not the end of the world," Grace added, pacing a little and looking at a clip-board in his hands. He talked about all these horrible things with this childlike wonder, with all this hope and interest. Simon couldn't understand it. How could he have this much hope?
"The issue is that I'm the only human around, and it's not like we can just get up and send you back to Earth. Eridians are off the table, since their blood is really hot mercury, that's incredibly toxic." Grace was squinting at his paper, deep in thought. "And I was wondering, actually, do you feel hungry? I wanted to know if the IV fluids are having any effect at all."
Simon cast his thoughts to his stomach. He hadn't been paying attention, because everything hurt and the thought of anything in his digestive system made him sick. When was the last time he ate anything? He didn't remember. That probably wasn't good. The last thing he drank—willingly—was the rubbing alcohol he found in the first-aid kid in the submarine. It burned his throat.
But, according to Grace and his little rock friends, he'd been drinking blood. Quite a lot of it.
Which was exactly what killed the crew of the SM-8.
"Simon?"
He jumped, coming back to Grace. "Hm?"
"Are you hungry?"
Simon shook his head.
Grace nodded. "So the fluids seem to be helping."
Simon nodded.
"Okay, I have some other questions."
Simon sighed. Grace was so incessantly caring. It pissed him off a bit. It was so endless, so persistent, and Simon didn't deserve it. He was a monster. A killer. His fault. All of it.
"Are you in pain? I can get you more pain medication, if you like."
Simon nodded. "Please."
"Okay, I'll be right back."
Simon relished in the silence. This was all a lot. Prison was simpler. He didn't miss it. But it was simpler. And he didn't have to worry about his skin sloughing off in prison. He didn't have to tolerate the irritating, grating kindness from a saviour in prison. All he had to do in prison was sleep, take a beating, and choke down scraps.
Ava said he'd be free. She said all he had to do was go down there, take some fucking pictures and then he'd be free. And so he took the fucking pictures. And she sent him back down there. Told him to ram it. She kept changing what it would take to set him free, and then she abandoned him. Fucking liar. Everyone fucking lied.
Simon had tried to break down Grace's story, pick apart what was so obviously a lie, but… it was so detailed. He was consistent with the facts and timeline, and the part about them sending him to space against his will was definitely cruel enough for him to believe.
He wanted to believe him.
He really did.
But… there was no way for it to be real. He was just waiting for Grace to snap and throw him out like he deserved. Hand him back over to the c.o.i. And when they doubled his sentence for destroying equipment and disobeying orders, he would know he deserved it.
The contraption moved.
Simon fell still. There was a robot on the ceiling, and it was moving directly at him. Its weird little hand thing reached forward for him, but he batted it away. "Fuck off," he told it, pushing it away again as it tried to get at him. He scrambled backwards, flinging away the bedsheets. It came at him again, relentless and hell-bent on his demise.
Simon leapt out of the bed, dragging the intravenous tube and pole with him. He used it to stabilise himself as he remembered how to walk. The robot followed him, the tracks it rolled on covering the whole ceiling. Simon stumbled away from it, panic rising in his chest as he ripped away sticky wires from his chest. The beeping of the heart monitor turned into a long, never-ending drone.
Simon brandished the pole that hung his fluids at the robot. "Back off," he warned it, planting his feet, getting ready to fight.
It continued forward, and so Simon picked up the pole and hit the robot. It seemed to reel for a moment, apparently confused by Simon's refusal to sit down and accept death.
It opened and closed its hand-claw, and rushed forward again.
Simon launched his full weight at the robot, finding a wire and holding on to it as his momentum dragged him past it. The contraption was clearly not designed to hold this much weight, and the metal groaned as he hung from it. He scampered away, dragging the pole with him, and then repeatedly beat the robot with it. With each hit, sparks flew, but Simon did not stop, because if it was sparking, that meant it was still alive.
He did not stop, fully dismantling it to the best of his ability. At some point, the needle that was pumping fluids into his arm fell out, spraying blood everywhere. But Simon kept hitting. It was hard work, but he refused to let it live. It needed to die.
"Hey, sorry I was gone so long, I had to really dig around for the…" Grace's voice trailed off, and Simon whipped around to see him standing there, small bottle in hand, a cloth bag in the other. His face was locked in a mixture of fear, confusion and worry.
Simon stood over the wreckage of the mechanical beast, chest heaving. He dropped the pole and wiped his nose, which had begun to bleed.
"Simon?" Grace asked quietly.
Simon turned away and stared outside the window. Now Grace would see just how big of a mistake he'd made by saving him. He'd see, and he would beat Simon like he deserved.
"What'd you do to Armando junior?"
"It attacked me."
"Armando Junior doesn't have an attack function. Is it possible you mistook him trying to help you for a violent action?" Grace asked, in his eternal kindness. "Describe what he did."
Simon hazarded a look back. Grace was standing against the barrier, and he had placed the bag and bottle down behind him. His face held no contempt, nothing to suggest any anger directed towards him.
"Came at me," Simon replied. "With the claw thing."
Grace hummed in thought. He moved outside Simon's view, and typed away at something on the laptop. He made a little rhythmic sound with his mouth and then stopped. "So, I think I found what happened on the logs here," Grace told him.
Simon leaned on the window sill.
"He's on a timer to change your dressings every few hours," Grace explained. "The 'claw' you mentioned is just the hand Rocky and I engineered for maximum dexterity and care for patients."
Simon faltered. "It was trying to help?"
"Yes."
It was only trying to help. Simon cursed himself. Of course that was what it was doing. And Simon killed it. Like he killed all those—
"Hey, it's okay," Grace said, stepping away from the laptop. "I should have warned you."
Simon bit the inside of his cheek.
"I mean, anyone would be surprised if a strange robot started coming towards them with a weird little grabby hand," Grace went on. "It's no surprise that you felt threatened."
Simon hesitated. "I pulled it apart."
"It's a robot. We can fix it."
Simon meant to reply, but a stab of pain made him double over, groaning. It was like his bones were trying to eat him, digging into is flesh from the inside. "Fuck," he whispered through gritted teeth. He sank to the ground, stabilising himself with his fist.
"Woah, hey," Grace called, moving towards a door Simon hadn't even noticed was there. It was seamlessly included into the glass wall. With a practiced touch, Grace opened the door, carrying the small bottle as he rushed over to Simon. He knelt in front of him. "Here, drink this." He offered Simon the bottle.
Simon knew how to follow orders. He took the bottle, trembling as he unscrewed the lid. He sniffed it warily.
"It's just a painkiller," Grace reassured him. "It'll help."
Simon brought the bottle to his lips and drank all of it in one go. It tasted foul, bitter, worse than the rubbing alcohol. His stomach turned. It must've needed time to adjust to actual substance after the fluids. Simon covered his mouth, trying not to vomit.
"Oh, I didn't think to wonder if your body could still tolerate human foods," Grace said apologetically.
Simon looked up at him through the hair that had fallen over his eyes. "What's happening to me?"
Grace's expression softened. "I don't know, Simon."
Simon cried out as his body disagreed with the fluid again. It was like he'd swallowed a knife, and the knife was twisting inside him as he tried to digest the painkiller.
"We'll figure it out, don't worry," Grace reassured, reaching out.
Simon found the strength in him to bat Grace's hand away. "Don't—Ack!" he coughed, blood falling from his mouth. "Touch me," he finished at a whisper, the whole idea of it making him sick to his stomach.
"Okay, okay, okay," Grace responded in his insultingly kind manner. "I won't."
Simon coughed once more, and sat up, kneeling. The face that met his eyes was so riddled with concern that, for a moment, he thought he was back in Eden, with a Brother consoling him. He wasn't, though. He was staring into the face of his saviour, Grace. The one who had pulled him from the ship. Who told him not to worry. Whose eyes were endless skies of hope and forgiveness.
"You alright?" Grace asked. "Painkiller gone down?"
Simon nodded. There was something in the way Grace talked that was so effortlessly comforting. Like the unending light of the stars.
But there was something else. Something new to Simon, but not entirely unfamiliar. Like the smell of a comforting meal when he was hungry.
His eyes fixated on Grace's neck, where he knew there was a vein brimming with blood.
He shook his head. No.
"Okay, well, despite your best efforts, you still need medical attention, and I have Armando junior's predecessor in my house, so," Grace's shoulders hiked up to his ears. "Can you walk? It's not far."
Simon swallowed. He gathered himself and stood. "Yep."
Grace stood also, leaving the bottle discarded on the floor. He adjusted his glasses and smiled at Simon. "I also brought you some clothes, because… well, we couldn't save your shirt, and your pants aren't much better condition. I don't know if they'll fit you, but I picked out the baggiest ones I could find."
Simon hobbled after him, the feeling of satiation just millimetres away, clouding his senses. He tuned out what Grace was saying, focusing instead on the ground in front of him. One step after another. One after another. Just follow Grace. Just… follow… Grace.