Work Text:
What’s in a name? / That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet
“They don’t even know my name.”
I must have repeated this aloud to myself countless times at this point. As I struggle to wrap my bleeding arms and attempt to make sense of the direction I am heading, I say my name both in my head and to the rusted walls. Perhaps my voice will carry into the speaker and reach the scientists.
“Simon,” I say as I draw out lines on the map to figure out coordinates that may never be discovered by anyone else.
“Simon,” I mutter before I press the rectangular button for a picture. The flash blinds me a little less every time. Yet I know that my body is growing weaker. I can taste a metallic sting in my saliva now, and the skin on my injured arms begins to burn under the wrappings. Everything about this place will kill me, but I am determined to be saved. I am determined to see the surface, even if it is with my final breath.
My sentence is a violation; not only of my life, but my body. They think I took away mouths they couldn’t feed and people they claimed to care about, and in return, I am a vessel. I can be used and disposed of in any manner.
Maybe slowly dying by my own volition is enough to keep me in some control of my body. That’s the key- my own volition. I swipe the marker over the paper to make another line, another indicator that there’s a slight chance I know where I am in this desolate place.
Well, perhaps it’s not so desolate.
Every time I click the button of the camera, I expect the picture: a sloping form with endless long teeth and dark eyes that hold pinpricks of light.
I don’t know if that’s what was talking to me. Or not talking to me. At this point, does it really matter? All I know is, there’s life that breathes in this ocean, and that means trouble for me.
At some point I am back in front of the computer again, the one I’m not supposed to know about. I click through the files and hope to catch something I’ve missed before as the heat in this metal coffin rises. I’m tempted to remove my shirt again, but it feels… exposing. I don’t know, it feels as though there’s somebody (or something) that’s been watching me.
I finish what must be my hundredth click through of the files. Nothing has changed. I still can’t access anything without a password. I sigh and step away from the screen. I wander around the ship as much as I can, even though the square footage doesn’t allow much space for wandering. I clench my fists and feel my dirty fingernails pinch the skin. I let my teeth sink into my tongue, just to feel a small sharp bite of pain. I am alive, in my body, and my well of hope remains… damp. Not dry.
“Simon,” I whisper. Just then, the speaker crackles to life with that unfamiliar voice. One that speaks my name.