Chapter Text
Simon awoke to find himself laying in a soft bed.
The feeling was foreign to him, as the COI tended to not favor their criminal population. He was used to the hard, metal tables his captors labeled as “beds”. Simon relished in the softness of the bed underneath him, soaking up the feeling and committing it to memory. He’s not quite sure he had ever felt something so comfortable before in his life. He basked in comfort for only a moment before acknowledging his situation.
Had he been saved? His last moments he remembered was succumbing to the blood pouring into his iron tomb. The feeling of his lungs becoming heavy with blood and being trapped against the wall by the tendrils that invaded the submarine. And the pain. Simon remembered the pain. It was then that Simon recalled how he had ripped his arm off in the heat of the moment while fighting for his life. He sat up in the bed, throwing off his covers with his right arm.
Simon gazed down at his… arm? Well, the ghost of his arm, more like. While Simon’s limb was indeed gone, he noticed how it seemed that he still had one. It was more like the outline of where his arm should be, glowing a shade of red, almost mocking him of the horrors he had gone through. Experimentally, he flexed his fingers and noticed that they responded. He reached his right hand out to grasp at it, but his hand went right through it. Panicked, Simon retracted his right arm. Frustrated, he reached out again, this time with more concentration, and was successful in grabbing his arm.
Simon looked in astonishment at the appendage, taking note of how it sparkled with what looked like stars. It reminded him of the stories he heard about as a child on Eden, recalling how the dots in the night sky were once bright, beautiful suns.
Eden. The COI. They had picked him up, hadn’t they? If so, why had they placed him in such a comfortable bed? They made it abundantly clear that they didn’t like him nor that they cared about him. The Butcher. Convict. Everything but his name.
He finally took in his surroundings. The room around him was decorated like a place someone had lived in for a long time. Shelves with photos and keepsakes, dressers with snack bins on them, and what even looked like a miniature refrigerator. A mini-fridge, Simon thought. The walls were covered floor to ceiling in fauna. And the ceiling, oh the ceiling. It shone like the night sky, full of stars and galaxies.
Simon’s eyes lingered on the plants on the wall. I’m in heaven, he decided internally. The only plant left was the lone tree on Eden, all the rest disappeared along with the Great Rapture. The possibility of there being a room with walls covered with plants was something only achievable in another life.
Coming to this conclusion, Simon sat up, planted both feet on the ground, and stood up. Immediately, Simon noticed that his sense of balance had been altered. He realized that missing an arm would, in fact, change a person’s ability to hold themselves upright. He stumbled for a moment before becoming confident in his steps.
Simon approached the door, nervous to open it. What if, Simon thought, What if I’m still on that damned submarine? What if this was another oxygen-deprived hallucination? What if my body finally became one with that ship and I’m finally the fucking monster everyone said I was?
He felt his breathing become ragged, too scared to open the door and lose this perfect little room he found himself in. It had everything he needed, didn’t it? Food, drinks, a place to sleep. And no bathroom, Simon interjected in his thoughts. Well, he’d figure that out. Yeah. Yeah. He would stay right here, and never have to worry about anything ever again. No more COI, no more SM-13, no more death.
Simon instead turned around, deciding to further explore the room he planned to make his new home. His gaze brushed over the various nick-knacks in the room, noting the large axe that seemed to be propped up near a dresser. It looked just like the axe that Simon had used during the incident at Filament Station to.. to… Convenient, he thought, How convenient. His eyes landed on a full-length mirror hanging from the wall near the bed. Curious to see himself, Simon approached it.
Simon cannot remember the last time he laid eyes on himself. Maybe a quick glance of his reflection in the hull window, or maybe the few times Simon has been fortunate enough to see his photo printed on his criminal records. Even through those few short moments and memories he has of viewing his face, he struggled to recognise himself in the mirror.
He noticed how he seemed to be wearing the same clothes he had been in when he was in the SM-13, however, he was not covered in blood. The left side of Simon’s face was scarred. The boils he saw on his arm seemed to now coat the area around his eye, disgusting him. The blood that had spurted on his face when the hull window cracked had stained his skin. I’m a monster, Simon thought. His left eye, however, was the most unrecognizable feature to him. He hadn’t quite noticed before, but Simon realized that he was unable to fully see out of his left eye. He understands now why that is.
His left eye glowed a beautiful white light. It seemed to illuminate his face as it fluctuated and warped. The Light, Simon remembered, It’s just as beautiful as The Light. Tentatively, he reached his still-real hand up to touch it. Instead, it shied away from his fingers, seeming to retreat back into his eye. His hand jolted away, and the Light seemed to creep back out. Huh, Simon thought, it’s shy.
A knock at the door ripped Simon from his thoughts, head swiveling to look towards his only escape. A voice spoke out from the other side.
“Yoo-hoo!! Anybody in there? Heeeellllooooooo????”
The person sounded like they were putting on a very accentuated voice, and Simon couldn’t help but be filled with curiosity. Who was this? His captor? His savior? His own personal demon sent to punish him for his sins?
“Are you even in there? Dark told me we would be getting a new guy today, and he’s never wrong! Except for when he is…”
Simon, hesitantly, began to slowly make his way towards the door. Whoever this was, he wasn’t going to meet them unprepared and unarmed. He grabbed the axe he had noticed earlier, readying himself by propping it up on his right shoulder. Carefully, he reached out towards the knob with his left hand.
Swinging the door open, Simon locked eyes with the person for only a second before swinging his axe at full force. The man managed to dodge the attack in record speed, reaching out to his hip before Simon felt the cold, metal barrel of a gun placed directly on his temple.
“Well now, that’s no way to greet someone, now is it?” The man giggled after speaking, pulling back the hammer on the revolver.
Simon looked up towards the man. His hair was short and black with pink tips, and he seemed to have an accompanying pink mustache. He dressed like the pictures Simon remembered seeing of men from the 1980s as a child. Disco, Simon thought. However, the more he looked at him, Simon couldn’t help but realize that they looked exactly alike.
“Too much? Well, you DID swing an axe at me first, so I thought pulling a gun on you was fair play!” The man chuckled as he withdrew his weapon and re-holstered it. He continued, “My name is Wilford Warfsatche, and you,” he paused, looking Simon up and down, “You look you’ve been through hell and back!”
I’m in hell, Simon thought.