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They find him floating face down next to the life jacket. It's a miracle he survived, they say. He should be long dead, lucky or not.
Simon wants to argue that it was his quick thinking, no luck involved at all, thank you very much. It must have been. He can remember trying to direct the Lung as close as he could towards the surface, and then…
Well, nothing. Or, he doesn't remember anything clearly, but he supposes that makes sense, given that he must have blacked out somewhere along the line.
He's not sure he wants to cling to the memories of before that point, memories of the creature that he'd escaped from by the skin of his teeth. Those moments are vastly more confusing than those surrounding his ascent, all jumbling together until all that remains is the impression of something larger than him, something imposing, something with far too many fucking teeth–
Simon shudders. It makes sense, he supposes, that the further he got from such a thing, the clearer his memories became. He just wishes he could remember how he escaped the Lung, and what became of it. Why can he recall the ascent, but not that?
He wants to ask the others about it, those who had rescued him and brought him back to the base, but everyone has made themselves scarce since allocating him a room to rest up in. Occasionally someone will walk past the door, and he's sure they must have eyes on him remotely through some camera he cannot see, but nobody has actually returned to the room to talk to him.
It's a little unnerving, and there's a thought that makes him want to laugh, because how is this situation unnerving in the face of everything that he had been through down below? He shakes his head, suppressing a self-depreciative smile.
He is sure they're watching him, though. He can feel eyes on him. It's a sensation he knows very well.
Before he can linger on that thought, distraction comes in the form of pain; agony slices through his skull, pulsing through his brain, and he can't help but cry out.
There's movement at the doorway, and he forces himself to try and focus on it, making out a figure peering in at him. For a moment he lets himself feel a little hopeful – but then the person moves on, leaving him alone again.
"Hey!" he calls out, anger rushing to the forefront of his mind, temporarily banishing everything else. "Where are you going? I need help!"
Predictably, they don't bother to return, even when he pulls himself out of bed and staggers over to the door. Simon snarls, then grimaces as the pain in his head is echoed by pain that spreads through his body, spiking in intensity as he bends one of his arms to lean against the metal. Rage wars with panic, neither coming out on top.
It's the submarine bay all over again. It's the submarine bay, except this time, he's not welded into the room–
He yanks on the handle, and the door doesn't budge.
It's locked. Sealed. They want him trapped in here, just as they'd wanted him trapped in the Lung.
"What's going on?" he says, knowing that he won't get a reply. Why would they do this?
They'd run their tests after he'd returned, and deemed that he was safe to be allowed back on the base. No space viruses, no fungi picked up from the rot, no nothing! He hadn't even been injured. There's no reason for their reaction now, and no reason for his current state. Not anything that he can make sense of, with the pain as it is.
It all reaches a fever-pitch, and he squeezes his eyes shut tight. It has to end eventually, he tells himself. There had to be some consequences of his survival (he's never been lucky, was foolish for thinking that he might have gotten away unscathed), but he wants it to be over, now.
He slumps to the floor, energy spent. He coughs, hunched over himself, and can feel the taste of iron in his mouth. Like the feeling of being watched, it is familiar.
Distantly, he can hear the sound of an alarm. Then, yelling.
It takes him some time to realise that he is standing. The strength that keeps him upright doesn't feel like his own. The sound of screeching metal cuts through the haze, as sourceless as his strength with his thoughts as scattered as they are, and he winces.
He's in motion, now, but he isn't making any effort to walk, and nobody is carrying him, so when did the door open and how–
A thousand voices swarm through his mind, drowning out the questions as surely as they drowned out the light, down below.
When he opens his eyes again, he becomes aware of the carnage around him, aware of those who try to stop him and meet a bloody end at the hands of whatever pilots him– but he's not aware of it for long. The memories are washed away, as malleable as he is, and he falls back into the dark.