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The cuffs bit into his wrists with every twitch of his hands, metal grinding against bone. They strained against his pulse that hammered too quickly with nerves. He tried to shift his weight, but even the smallest movement scraped the chair legs across the floor with a sound that seemed to echo in the suffocating darkness.
There were no lights. No windows. No sense of space. Just sheer darkness, pressing and uncomfortable. He had no idea how long he’d been in there for. Minutes. Hours. Days. Time all seemed to blur together, dissolving when there was nothing to measure it by except the ache in his muscles and the slow, gnawing bite of hunger.
His throat burned with thirst. He swallowed, more out of habit than anything else, and tasted nothing but dryness. No water had been provided to him since they first brought him there. The C.O.I. weren’t known for their kindness – not to his people, nor anyone else they deemed inconvenient.
He shouldn’t even be here. He hadn’t done what they said he’d done.
He repeated that to himself like a mantra, even as the memories that rose were messy and blood-slicked. Winding corridors, hurried arguments with his brothers, blood pulsing over his hands. And, when those C.O.I. bastards had shown up, witnessed the destruction his brothers had caused, it had been his name spilling from their mouths, even as they were all dragged away.
The Butcher, they’d said. It was his idea.
A faint murmur broke the silence. His head snapped up, breath catching. Voices – muffled and indistinct – filtered through the iron door they’d sealed him behind. He leaned forward, straining to catch even a single word. The voices paused as he heard a key being inserted, twisting in the lock. He braced. But the door didn’t open.
The voices resumed, quieter now, and footsteps retreated down the hall. His lips parted in disbelief. They were leaving him. Again. For how much longer? Another hour? Another day? Maybe they were hoping to keep him there forever, to let him waste and starve and die, alone and trapped in darkness. Forgotten.
The lights snapped on.
White, blinding, merciless light flooded the room. He recoiled with a strangled curse, squeezing his eyes shut as pain exploded through his skull. The brightness was so sharp it felt like knives slicing across his retinas. Even when he forced his eyes open a sliver, the room was a blur of sterile white – walls, floor, ceiling. The only change was the gleaming metal of the table and two chairs sitting across from him.
He blinked through the lingering throb of his head as the door creaked open. Two figures stepped inside.
Both were dressed in the dark uniforms of the C.O.I., the iron-shard emblem stitched into the fabric of their upper right arm. A low echo of pain whispered in his own bicep; a reminder of white-hot metal and screaming agony. He rasped in a breath, forcing his temper to settle.
One of the people was female, with her dark hair forced into a militaristic bun and she had a thin, unsmiling mouth. The other was male, with a strong jaw and dreadlocks pulled back into a low ponytail. He carried a boxy device with practiced ease.
They stood and studied at him for a moment. He stared right back, entirely unflinching.
Then the man took two brisk steps forward and sat the device onto the metal table. He fiddled with it for a moment before pressing a button at the top. A soft click and a faint hum filled the room. The woman dragged out a chair and sat. The man followed suit, flipping open a notepad and file, the latter of which he passed to the woman.
“This is C.O.I. member oh-one-three-four,” the man started, voice clipped and professional. “With me is C.O.I. member oh-one-three-seven. Henceforth, we will be known as Z and F respectively. Purpose is the questioning and evaluation of Convict four-two-eight-five for Project Iron Lung. Convict, state your name for the recording.” The convict stared at him for a beat, incredulous, as Z began to write. Then:
“No.” Z paused mid-stroke of his pen. He lifted his gaze slowly, expression flattening.
“Convict,” he repeated, “state your name for the recording.” Anger flared and the convict leaned forward.
“Fuck. You.” F’s scowl was immediate, her lip curling like she’d tasted something foul.
“Listen, Convict,” she said, low and dangerous. “You can either cooperate, and you might win back your freedom. Or we can throw you back in a cell to rot for the rest of your worthless existence. Are we understood?” The convict barked a harsh laugh.
“You honestly think I believe that bullshit? You would never free me. Not after what you think I did.” Z tilted his head, studying him with a faint spark of interest.
“You’re still claiming that you weren’t responsible for Filament Station?”
“Does it matter what the truth is?” the convict snapped. “You still wouldn’t believe me anyway.” Z sat his pen down, leaning back slightly.
“Well, then this works perfectly for you.” Z gestured at the convict. “You answer our questions and, if you’re suitable, you do one little job for us, and you can walk. Better than wasting behind bars for something you’re innocent of, right?”
“It won’t be fucking little if it wins me freedom. So, what the Hell is Project Iron Lung?”
“You’re not the one asking—” F began, but Z raised a hand. She glanced at him, and the convict could see the cogs spinning in her mind. Though she didn’t look happy about it, she backed off.
“Project Iron Lung,” Z said, “is the scientific investigation we are running on moon AT-5.” The convict rolled his eyes.
“Yeah, the blood moon. I know the one you’re talking about.”
“We believe it holds answers as to what caused the Quiet Rapture.” That got the convict’s attention. His brows drew together. “We choose one convict to send down to search the ocean and take a few photos. Then we reel you up with the data you’ve collected. We get more information to work with, you get to walk free. Sounds like a fair deal, right?”
The convict didn’t answer right away, glancing between the two. His headache was beginning to fade, but it was still there just enough to disorient him. Something was off. Something they weren’t saying. He just couldn’t figure out what.
“And you’ve done this before?” he asked. Z hesitated – just a fraction, but it was enough. The convict knew he’d found the issue.
“No. You’d be the first,” Z admitted, and the convict scoffed.
“So I can’t get any proof that you actually stay true to your word. Typical.”
“The C.O.I. don’t lie like your people do,” F jutted in, a low growl to her tone.
“All the C.O.I. do is lie,” he shot back.
“We give our people the information they need to form their own opinions. Your people brainwash you into killing for a tree.”
“You—” The convict surged forward, but his cuffs were chained to the floor and he was yanked back. A low groan of pain escaped him as his shoulders and wrists throbbed. F was also on her feet in the same moment, slamming her hands on the table between them.
“Officer!” Z barked, a sharp warning to the word. Reluctantly, F sat back down, crossing her arms. The convict bit out a humourless laugh.
“What is this – good cop, bad cop?” he asked.
Z’s lips thinned. “Do you want the opportunity or not?”
The convict considered the question. They were framing it like this was voluntary, but in the end, he was the one in cuffs. For all he knew, they’d throw him in the craft anyway and he just wouldn’t get his pardon for the work. There was no real choice. Either die behind bars or do whatever the Hell they were after.
Z saw the resignation settle into his posture and smiled – a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Convict, state your name for the recording.” The convict swallowed, looking away in defeat.
“Simon.”
“Thank you. Henceforth, for the purposes of the recording, Simon shall be referred to as Convict.” Rage flared hot in his chest, his nostrils flaring.
“Excuse me? All that for you to just—”
“We are going to ask you some questions, Convict. We expect you to answer truthfully and with as much detail as you can. Do you understand?” Simon’s jaw clenched.
“I understand,” he responded stiffly.
“Very good.” F flipped open the file and Z skimmed over it briefly. “Now, am I correct in understanding that you originate from the Martian colonial spacecraft commonly referred to as Eden?”
“Yes.”
“F, if you please?” Z looked at F expectantly, who pulled out two photographs from the file and placed them on the table. Simon glanced down at them, a little curious despite himself.
The first of the photos showed an old picture of Eden, from before the Quiet Rapture. It was one of the largest satellites in existence, capable of holding up to seven hundred people. Ships were frozen in the photo, some heading for its docking bay while others started their journey towards the red planet framed behind it. The inscription “3‑DEN” was etched along its side.
The second photo was grainy; a blurry snippet taken from a security camera. It showed a group of five people, all in mid-action. The focal point of the shot, though, was the face of one of the men. He’d turned his face towards the camera, showing eyes alit with a fire that seemed to burn through the film. Spatters of something dark pickpocketed his face, and he held a gun. Tucked in his belt was a thick metal rod. The emblem of a tree was stuck to his chest.
“We are showing Convict photographs one-A and three-C,” F said, keeping her voice carefully flat. Simon looked back up at them, trying to workout what they were aiming at.
“Convict, please confirm that the subject with his face turned to the camera is you,” Z said.
Simon raised his eyebrows. “Are we seriously playing this game?”
“Just answer the question.” He looked at the photos again, then back at Z, not sure whether he should laugh or be furious they were acting so obtuse.
“Yes. Obviously, it’s me. Christ, this is ridiculous.”
“Refrain from the commentary, Convict,” F snapped, tucking the photograph that showed him away but keeping Eden’s on the table. Simon had to swallow back another cutting comment. In all honesty, he wanted to see where this interrogation – because that was what it was, regardless of the pretty words Z used – led to.
“Could you explain the first time you arrived at Eden and your initial impression?” Z asked.
“I was three when my parents brought me there, so I remember jackshit. Answer your question enough?”
“And where were you at the moment of the Quiet Rapture?” Simon went still, looking down at the photo of Eden. It really was such an old photograph. Frozen in time, untouched by the catastrophe that had reshaped everything.
“The Quiet Rapture happened when I was six,” he said. His voice was steady, but something in it was hollowed out. Despite how young he had been, he remembered it as clear as day. Everyone did. How could you not?
He had been playing with his friends near the Great Tree, keeping careful distance from the guards stationed at its roots with their usual stern vigilance. The guards were always there. The Tree was sacred, fragile, irreplaceable. Even as a child, he’d known not to get too close.
But then a voice came over the comm and everything seemed to freeze. A voice – strained disbelieving – announced something to the entire station.
Mars was gone.
Not destroyed. Not silent.
Gone.
His mother had appeared out of nowhere, all blood drained from her face, scooping him into her arms with a force that knocked the breath from him. She held him like she was afraid he’d vanish too. He remembered her heartbeat hammering against his cheek. He remembered the way she whispered his father’s name, filled with a hope already broken.
“They announced it to the whole station. My old home, Mars, was gone. They couldn’t get in contact with anybody.” Simon swallowed. “My dad was down there. Uh… He had been away on business. We never saw him again.”
“So you stayed on Eden?”
Simon’s eye twitched slightly. “Of course I did. Where the fuck else could I go?”
“What was your standing in their hierarchy?”
Simon frowned, tilting his head. “Their hierarchy?” Z waved his hand, searching for a diplomatic phrasing. F didn’t bother.
“Your place in the cult.”
Simon’s head snapped towards her, lip curling. “What did you just call us?”
“Convict,” Z cut in smoothly, firing a look of warning at his companion. “We just want to know more about the structure and nature of Eden. That’s all.”
“You think I’d tell you, huh? You think all it takes is one measly promise of freedom, and I’d give up my brothers, just like that?”
Z’s expression didn’t change. “As you have claimed so many times in the past few years, your brothers set you up. You owe them no loyalty.”
Simon strained forward, ignoring the way his cuffs pulled his shoulders and cut into his skin. “I owe them everything.”
Z sat back, lifting his chin. “Prove it.”
Simon stared at him for a long moment, weighing up his options. The silence stretched, taut as a wire. On one hand, he had made a vow to Eden and his brothers to fight until the end and never give up information that may better their opponents. On the other…
It had been years since Filament Station. Years where no one had come for him. Years where the only voices calling his name had been his nightmares as the C.O.I. all but ignored that he had one.
He remembered the war. Nine days and nights of blood and smoke. Brothers falling beside him. Enemies falling beneath him. A satellite turned battleground. His effectiveness at killing was what earned him his title of Butcher.
But still, they had betrayed him. When Simon surrendered rather than being complicit in their plan of blowing the station sky-high, his brothers had pointed at him. The C.O.I. hadn’t questioned it; had been gleeful in bringing him to jail. No trial, no jury. Prisoners of war didn’t get that.
Easy to pin it on someone when the other side already views you as the monster.
“After the Quiet Rapture,” Simon began quietly, “it’s true that things began to change. There was the initial period of grief. Everyone had lost someone. The ones who were left… We became a family. Eden took care of us, and we took care of Eden. And, more importantly, we took care of the Great Tree.”
“We understand the tree is very important to Eden,” Z pressed.
“It should be important to everyone.” Simon’s voice sharpened. “It’s the last source of naturally produced oxygen. You’re jumping from moon to moon, trying to find resources to survive, or searching for answers to bring back those already dead. You’re wasting time.” He sighed. “Eden just knows that we have to work with what we’ve got. Bodies become soil. Soil feeds the tree. The tree keeps us alive.”
He paused. Familiar doubt flickered across his face – a small, fragile thing quickly smothered by guilt. It was what got him in trouble the most at Eden. Z noticed immediately.
“There’s something you’re not telling us,” Z murmured. Simon leaned back in his chair, turning his face to the ceiling.
“They gave up,” he croaked. “There was no will to expand, or grow, or live. It was just the tree and remaining stagnant. The C.O.I. try to move, try to grow, but they’re stuck in their ways of trying to fix it. Refusing to let go of the past. On Eden, at least, you still had the choice for peace, whereas on the C.O.I. it’s all but stamped out in your pursuit for answers.”
“And your place in the system, Convict?” Z asked softly. Even F had fallen silent and had stopped glaring. Simon almost laughed. Here they were, trying to pick apart the faults of Eden, and he was forcing them to realise that their beloved C.O.I. wasn’t all it was cracked up to be either.
“I’ve always been strong,” Simon said. “They had me lugging equipment, doing repairs to heavy machinery; anything that needed muscle. When I turned eighteen, they put the tattoo on me. I didn’t get a choice, but then I didn’t get a choice either when you lot burned it off. Funny how that works, isn’t it?” He felt the ghost of a burn on his bicep again, and sighed.
“It was like that for a while. Then your people started really pissing off our Father. We needed to make a statement, to get you off our backs. They sent me out, along with a few of my fellow brothers.”
“The attack on the satellite over Z-8,” Z realised.
“Yeah. Just enough to scare, really. We banged up the place and threatened to come back should you not back off. And you didn’t back off.”
“It was only weeks later that you arrived on Filament Station.” Simon’s throat felt like it was closing, emotion strangling him. His mouth twitched.
“Yeah, it was. And you know how that went.”
“You killed in the name of Eden,” F said, her voice low. Simon turned his glower onto her.
“And you killed in the name of the C.O.I. Are we really all that different?” Simon took a moment to breathe, forcing himself to calm down. “Look, I didn’t want for what happened at Filament Station. I tried to get them to stop, but they didn’t listen. I was never as committed to the cause as my brothers. The man in charge at Eden, our Father, was an old man who told us our only purpose was to preserve the Great Tree in every way we can. Even in death. I wasn’t exaggerating when I said that our bodies would become soil.”
“Sounds pretty cult-like to me,” F muttered.
“Last warning, F,” Z said under his breath.
Simon pushed a hand through his hair, though it was awkward with the cuffs. “It wasn’t a cult. It was survival. That tree gives unlimited, breathable air. How long is it until your own supplies run out? Or have your leaders not told you?” The silence was answer enough. Simon nodded, slightly satisfied. “Exactly. I’m not saying Eden is innocent, but they’re a damn lot better than the C.O.I.”
With his point concluded, Simon slumped, exhaustion dragging him back into his chair. Memories pressed in – his mother’s face, his brothers’ laughter, the hum of Eden’s corridors. Tears pricked at his eyes. He blinked them away, furious at himself.
God, he missed Eden.
He missed his mother, who would be all alone without him there. He missed his brothers, despite their betrayal. He missed the comfort of his own bed in his own home with his own people. He missed so much.
Which was why he had to do this. For them. To give himself a chance to escape. So he could be with them again.
“You’re right,” F admitted. Now that shocked Simon out of his spiral. His eyes snapped up to hers, and she didn’t look consumed by rage for once. Instead, she was almost pensive. Resigned. Human. She shrugged helplessly.
“You’re right,” she repeated. “They’ve not told us about our supplies, but I can guess they’re running out. I don’t know how much longer we have left. Which is why we’re asking you to do this for us.”
“Project Iron Lung,” Simon murmured.
“We think you’re a good candidate,” Z agreed. “You’re clever enough, you’re strong, your background on engineering might help you when you’re under. And you’re a survivor.”
A cold shiver crawled down Simon’s spine. “Just how dangerous is this?”
Z smiled. Once again, it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re going into an ocean of blood. It’s not risk-free, but it will guarantee your freedom.”
Simon didn’t have time to mull it over. Besides, they knew they had him. He had no choice in this. Just like the rest of his fucking life. His answer was immediate.
It wasn’t even ten minutes later that he was being marched through a maze of corridors, two armed guards flanking either side of his shoulders with Z and F in front of him. F had taken over here, talking quickly to explain what was about to happen. This seemed to be her area of expertise.
Simon caught fragments of it: no windows, no door, welded shut, maps inside, radio, chain for retrieval, key locations. His mind was already sinking, picturing the thick red and suffocating darkness.
He'd be alone in there. It wasn’t worth risking more than one person.
When they arrived at, what he assumed to be, his destination, he was greeted by a woman with pale hair and a scar carved into one side of her face. She took one look at him and her frown deepened in a way that implied she’d already decided he was a problem.
“Follow me, Convict,” she demanded without preamble, and spun on her heel. Z paused, offering Simon a small, tight smile.
“This is where we leave you, Convict. Good luck,” he said quietly. There was a tension in his jaw. Something unsaid. A sick feeling settled in Simon’s gut again. He didn’t have time to decipher what Z’s expression meant.
When Simon tried to walk away, a hand grabbed his arm. He turned to find F gripping onto him, surprised. She looked equally as shocked by her action, before oscillating quickly between sympathy, grief, and fury.
“I just needed you to know,” she spat, as is she couldn’t get the words out quickly enough, “that I don’t care what happens to you down there. I don’t know if you’re telling the truth that you had no part in the final destruction of Filament Station, but frankly I doubt it would make me hate you any less. My sister was on that station. As far as I’m concerned, her blood is on your hands.”
With a sharp jerk, she released him. And, Simon noted, despite her insistence of not caring if he lived or died, she still couldn’t maintain eye contact with him.
That sickness in his gut seemed to double.
“Convict!”
The woman’s voice cut through the corridor like a blade. Simon flinched before he could stop himself, then forced his shoulders back and turned. She was already striding ahead, expecting him to follow without hesitation.
He did. What other choice did he have?
Every step felt like one closer to his death. The air in the facility was cold, metallic, humming with machinery and the frantic energy of people who had long since stopped pretending they weren’t desperate. They weaved through the crowd, who he assumed were scientists as they rushed past, clutching datapads and shouting updates to one another. Their words blurred into a wall of noise – technical jargon, warning, recalibrations.
Simon couldn’t make any sense of it. He just kept his eyes on the woman’s back, trying to keep close enough so he wouldn’t get swept away by the chaos.
Eventually she turned sharply into a side-room. He followed, and it was only then noticed the guards were still flanking him, blocking the exit so he couldn’t escape.
Inside, two men were waiting. One wore a welder’s mask, the thick goggles on his skinny frame almost comical. The other hovered near a console, checking readings with the tense focus of someone who knew mistakes could be fatal.
“This is the guy?” the welder asked, his Irish accent unmistakeable, even through the mask.
“This is him,” the woman confirmed, before turning back to him. “Convict! Get over here and sit in this chair. Do one of you two have the key for his cuffs?” One of the guards produced a key as Simon reluctantly did as ordered, approaching the half-constructed submarine sitting in the centre of the room. It looked less like a vessel and more like a metal coffin – rough, mismatched plates welded together, pipes snaking across its surface like veins.
The welder lifted his mask, frowning at him. “Well, get in there. Faster you do, the faster we get this over with.”
“Is it safe?” Simon asked, eyeing the thing warily. It honestly just looked like a hunk of metal, made out of the same iron scraps the Consoldation of Iron was so known for.
The welder rolled his eyes. “I’m good at my job, okay? Now get in and I’ll lower the top part and weld it shut.”
Simon looked up, noticing for the first time the missing roof of the monstrosity. It was suspended by machinery, casting a shadow onto the bottom part below.
He swallowed, approaching the rungs jutting out awkwardly of the side. Inside, he could see a cramped chair, a cluster of controls, and a single screen with a button towards the back.
Without giving himself time to second guess, Simon awkwardly climbed over the metal lip of the sub and dropped himself in. The impact clanged, and he grimaced, but the floor thankfully didn’t give. Breathing out shakily, he sat himself down. The woman appeared above him, brandishing a key.
“Give me your wrists,” she said, and Simon complied. The moment the cuffs clicked open, relief flooded him so sharply it was almost painful. His hands felt weightless, foreign, like they belonged to someone else.
“Thank you,” he said, but she simply turned away.
Machinery groaned overhead. The top part of the sub began to lower. Simon’s breath hitched as the light narrowed, shrinking to a sliver, then a line, then nothing. There was a thunk of metal hitting metal. Darkness swallowed him.
A moment later, a small window in front of him slid open to reveal the woman’s face. Her voice had to compete with the deafening screech of welding as sparks rained down from above.
“You know what you’re here to do!” she shouted. “Go down, get the photos, get out!”
“I thought I wasn’t getting a window!” he yelled back.
“We’ll seal it once you’re down there! The blood causes too much pressure! Look to your right – you’ll see the documents you’ll need!” Simon looked down and, true enough, there they were. When he returned his attention to the window, the woman was already gone.
Sweat beaded on his forehead and trailed down the back of his neck. It was boiling in the sub, especially with all the layers of his prison uniform. The sub felt smaller with every breath — a metal lung that barely had room for him, let alone air. He scanned the cramped interior for any food or water. There was nothing. Maybe they thought he’d be finished so quickly he wouldn’t need any.
A spark landed on his neck. He hissed and yanked his hood up, curling slightly to shield himself. The welding continued, sealing him in piece by piece.
His thoughts drifted — unbidden, unwelcome — to Eden.
F had called it a cult.
And now, in the suffocating dark, he couldn’t deny it. Punishments for those who threatened their way of life, viewing anyone who didn’t see their way as threats, the tattoo that branded their lifestyle onto its followers, his brothers desire to kill, his Father’s whispers of white lies to keep the peace.
But, in the end, it was home. And he missed his home.
The screeching sound of welding stopped, and Simon heard heavy footsteps walking above him. Muffled voices shouted at each other. Then:
“How’s it looking in there, Convict?” the woman asked over the crackling of a speaker behind him. Simon twisted and looked up, seeing it hooked into a line on the ceiling.
“Uh…” He looked around for a microphone to speak into.
“Just talk. We can hear you.” Simon grimaced.
“Oh, right. Okay, then—” He surveyed the sub again. “Yeah. Yeah, it all looks good.”
“Alright. We’re good to go. Moving into position.” An alarm began to blare. The sub lurched, lifted by unseen machinery. Simon held his breath, hearing his blood rush through his ears as his heart began to pound. Fear nearly paralysed him. His fingers clenched onto his trousers in a white-knuckled grip.
The sub shuddered again as it stilled, and the distinct scrape of metal against metal sounded as something opened below him. He looked down at the iron floor. His breath came in rapid gasps.
And then everything stilled.
For one suspended moment, Simon felt weightless. Untethered. Like the universe was holding its breath with him.
Simon steeled his nerves, dipping his head in resignation. There was no going back now. The woman’s voice came over the radio:
“Beginning the descent.”
And the world fell away beneath him.