Chapter Text
The last thing he remembered was drowning.
The crawl space of the sub had been almost completely submerged, he had been trying to get the black box. All he could see was red and all he could taste was the unforgiving metallic tang of blood invading every orifice of his body.
He had just gotten his hands on the black box when he felt something grab him. Not something solid like hands, it felt like… well, it felt like nothing.
But he went from fighting the thick river of blood to facedown in- grass?
There wasn’t any grass in the sub.
He coughs, lifting his head and gasping. He was soaked in blood and it was in his eyes and his mouth and his hair and his bandages and he couldn’t see.
“What the fuck,” he mutters, rolling on his back and staring at the night sky. He breathed in air and coughed out blood, turning his head to spit it in the grass.
This wasn’t the Consolidations headquarters. He wasn’t in the SM-13.
He was somewhere else. Somewhere with grass, apparently. No place could grow grass, Eden had been the only place he saw wisps of the green life but that had been destroyed after-
“Hey!”
His eyes popped open and he rolled on his stomach, immediately on edge at the sound of a voice. He saw a figure standing a ways away from him, backlit by a light.
Was the person even real? Was he alive? Had he died in the crawl space and gone to some fucked up Heaven?
“You can’t be here, bloody guy!” The voice yelled again, shining a flashlight right in his eyes. He hissed and inched back, smearing blood in the ground below him. “Wait, are you injured? Do you need help? That’s not your blood, is it?”
“I don’t-“ What if this is another hallucination? A dream? Some trauma-induced nightmare that gives him some hope only to wake up back in the sub? “I- are you real?”
The stranger pauses, patting his body like he was making sure. “I’m pretty sure I’m real. I’ve been wondering that myself, but darkling says I am.”
He had no clue who ‘darkling’ was and it really didn’t do much to soothe his dread, but what was the harm with indulging in a dream?
“Where am I?” He holds his hand up to shield the beam of the flashlight from his face, squinting. “Fuck, turn that off. You’re blinding me.”
There’s a click and Simon blinks, trying to rub the blood out of his eyes. He squints out of one eye, seeing a massive house behind the person standing on what seems to be an overhanging balcony.
So now he’s trespassing. Great.
“Is that your blood?” The person asks again, gesturing to all of him.
“Not all of it.” He grunts, pushing himself to his feet. The blood is already drying in places and he scoops up the black box, tucking it under his arm.
He takes a few cautious steps towards the house, watching the person for any sudden movements. The closer he gets, the more clearly he can see him. And he’s decked out in pink.
Pink, slippery-material pajamas. A pink mustache. Even his flashlight is pink.
Now he doesn’t know if he’s dreaming or on some kind of oxygen-deprived-trip.
The guy stops him before he can climb the stairs, frowning at him. “Now hold on, you can’t just traipse through the house dripping like that! The floors were mopped today.”
“… well, I don’t know what you expect me to do.” Simon bites back, rubbing his eyes again. I thought dreams were supposed to be nice, he thought bitterly. “Who even are you, man? Do you work for the Consolidation or something?”
“Well, I don’t know who that is, but they sound boring! And Warfstache works for no one but himself!” The man — Warfstache, apparently — sounds offended at the mere suggestion of working for someone. “Wait here, I’ll be right back.”
Simon watches the guy run off and he sighs, half-believing he wouldn’t be back. Or he was getting the guards. He scratches the back of his neck and wonders how far the nearest town is.
I could probably sneak around the house, he thinks. As far as the Consolidation knows, I’m dead. They’re not gonna want me back-
He chokes, stumbling back when he’s hit with water. He tries to cover his face, the dried blood dripping back in his eyes. “Fuck-!”
The water stops and Simon coughs, blinking up through tearing eyes at the man. He’s holding a hose, spraying him down like he’s a muddy dog.
“Hm. Missed a spot.” The hose turns back on and Wilford focuses it on Simon’s face, watching the blood-tainted water trickle through the grass.
The hose turns back off and Simon drops the black box, holding his arms up in surrender. “I’m clean! I’m clean, enough with the fucking hose!”
“Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it!” Wilford beams, poofing the hose back to its spot on the side of the house. “Come on now, come meet the others.”
A part of him wants to flip the guy off and leave, but what are the odds he’ll find someone willing to take him in? He scoops the box back up and begrudgingly follows him inside, keeping a wide berth of the guy.
Whoever else is in the house, he hopes they’re not as odd as this Warfstache character.