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“Begin the descent,”
Your head snapped upwards unhealthily fast, eyes locking onto the flickering orange light linked to the intercom. The grating noise of rusty chains moving against their will, crackling of radio static and the sloshing of blood caused your stomach to lurch and drop.
The submarine followed suit.
It jerked violently as it dropped into the ocean, and your fists grasped the metal pipes near you for stability, legs curling up into your chest from the position you were sitting in on the ground.
You snuck a glance at the other convict you were stuck with, seeing how he was hunched over the control panel, knuckles turning white from how he grasped the edges of it so tightly. You couldn’t ignore the small tinge of fear that spread from your stomach, to your heart, to your head, and nestled deep into your bones as you slowly came to the realisation of your fate.
This was a death sentence.
An execution, hidden behind the fake promise of freedom.
The metal coffin seemed to protest this ‘expedition’ as much as you did, groaning and creaking at each depth notch it passed. The noise only heightened the fear you felt through your whole body.
The convict and the woman on the radio conversed, but you just stared blankly at the metal sheeted walls and rusty pipes ahead. Fluid began to dew on the walls, condensation, you muse, and you tried not to dwell on why it was forming- (the ocean is alive and boiling and it knows you're here-)
“Funny how some things survive and others don’t, huh?”
You zone back into the conversation, and vacantly tilt your head to look at the only other occupant in this metal coffin. His knuckles somehow gripped tighter, and his whole body tensed up like a coiled spring - each inhale and exhale seemingly done manually.
Touchy subject.
“We’re losing radio signal, just get to the coordinates and catalogue as instructed - and we will consider your penance served,” The woman on the intercom said, voice nearly void of emotion, almost a hint of boredom laced within. Like she’s said this multiple times before.
“No- what- Hey! HEY! YOU CAN'T BE SERIOUS! YOU CAN'T- You can’t be serious. You can’t be serious…” The convict yelled, voice getting softer and quieter at the end, losing its bite, the driving venom behind his words disappearing.
The crackling of the intercom faded out, and the orange light stopped flickering.
You two were alone.
He raised his fist, seemingly about to slam it down onto the control panel out of pure rage, and you instinctively flattened yourself up against the wall, like a scared animal backed into a corner. He looked over his shoulder and appeared to suddenly remember your existence (probably from hearing the scratchy, patchwork green sweater you adorned brush against the metal walls).
His fist went back to resting on the control panel.
A few beats of silence passed through the air.
“Do you want to take the photos?” He asked, voice low and almost raspy. “I guess,” you reply, voice equally quiet.
The two of you worked in harmony for a bit with conversation kept to a minimum. You leant against the scrap metal wall of the back of the sub, and pressed the glowing green button when asked, an evergrowing sense of paranoia filling your body at each empty black and white photo that came back. It was just creepy - how the photo would slowly fill up the large monitor, and then flash away.
Every image seemed to burn itself into your retinas.
“Huh,” You say suddenly, breaking up the quiet and nearly tense atmosphere. This photo was… not good, to say the least. A giant skeleton of a fish (maybe?) with too many teeth, gaping eye sockets and lots of ribs filled out the image. “What?” The other soul trapped in here with you asked, tone rough and tired, and you heard the squeaky noise of an unoiled office chair turn.
His footsteps echoed towards you, and he managed to get a glimpse of the image before it disappeared. “The fuck?” He asked in a low tone, and then leaned an arm in front of you to hit his fist against the shutter button.
He was close enough for you to really analyse, and the light coming from the photo developing made his features more noticable. Black hair kept out of his face with a semi-dirty beige headband, dark brown eyes, some stubble… He was unfortunately (or fortunately) quite pretty.
Which was an insane thing to say about The Butcher.
It didn’t take a lot to realise who you were placed in here with. The little things the woman on the intercom would say passive aggressively, how he would react or respond to them, the guilt and anger and sadness he seemed to carry on his own shoulders, the tattoo burnt off his neck that you caught a glimpse of - it all added up.
Why the C.O.I decided to put you (a little bit of treason and sedition never hurt anyone) inside a death box with a mass murderer is something you’d never understand.
You forced your eyes away from his face, and tried to not breathe in his scent (somehow he smelt nice, vanilla mixed with musk-) and focused on the new image he took.
“It moved,” You say blankly, taking a small step backwards, as if the skeleton was going to lunge out at you from the monitor. “It moved?” He repeated in the same tone you used, sounding skeptical. “Uh- Yes, definitely,” You confirm.
The navigator suddenly starts beeping, the blaring noise almost making you jump. The yellow arrows were flashing in all directions. The submarine started swaying and lurching and shaking violently, and you clumsily grabbed onto a random pipe to steady yourself from the turbulence. The convict stumbled and almost bumped into you, resorting to clutching onto your upper forearm to stabilise himself. He had a death grip, it nearly felt like you were gonna bruise.
Just as quickly as it started, it abruptly stopped.
The intercom buzzed to life.
“Convicts! What’s the hold up?” The woman yelled, voice peaking through the mic. “There’s something alive down here!” You yelled back, walking towards the speaker. The convict followed behind you, steady and hushed, like a guard dog. “We found a skeleton,” you continue. Quieter. Like a hushed secret.
“A skeleton?” The woman repeats, “Are you sure?” She continues and you look at the speaker with a disdainful expression. “We know what a skeleton looks like,” The convict spoke, sarcasm laced like a silk snare throughout his words. He placed a foot in front of you and leaned forward slightly - defensively - looking at the speaker wired into the roof with an equally scornful glare.
You and the convict looked at each other. An unspoken conversation happening just through eyes alone. You weren’t sure if that actually was a skeleton.
A man yelled in the background something unintelligible, but the woman seemed to get excited by it. Your gaze focused back on the rusty intercom. “We can’t lose this- Bring them up!” She yelled, although it was obviously not directed towards you and the convict. You shared another quick glance with the man to your right before the submarine suddenly jerked upwards. You fell backwards fully, slamming your head against its iron walls. The convict reached out towards you, brown eyes widened and pupils dilated, but the world still went black.
Pain bloomed across the back of your head like a jagged shard of metal being driven into the base of your skull, going deeper with each heartbeat and every breath. Your eyes opened halfway, but shut immediately when met with blinding light - your ears rang with the sounds of a heated debate.
“You aren’t hearing me when I say there’s something else!” He yells, and you willed your eyes open to make out the blurry figure of a woman - probably the speaker on the mic - wipe at the glass porthole. “There might just be,” She says with a hint of saccharine sweetness, a small smile on her lips as she speaks.
The conversation was hard to listen to, you missed sentences said by each person. With your head pounding, ears roaring, and vision blurring, you felt like you were going in and out of consciousness - barely hanging on by a thread.
“It’s a lot more than you deserve, so just do your damn job!”
“Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t realise this was VOLUNTARY!” The convict punched the glass multiple times, rage turning into a physical display of power. “FUCK! At least let her go! She has a fucking concussion and who knows what else! What did she do to get stuck in here with me?!”
“She deserves this the same way you do,” The woman calmly stated, before the terrified scream of ‘you psycho Eden fuck!’ reverberated outside the sub. In your dazed state, you didn’t notice the convict stomp to the back of the room and bash the shutter button.
You blacked out again.
The next time you came to was a lot less hectic. No more arguments, no more shouting, slightly less of a headache - it was more bearable. A pained groan filled the otherwise quiet atmosphere. Your body still ached, random parts pulsing and throbbing in a dull pain.
“Shit, you’re awake,” A voice exclaimed, and you opened your eyes to see the convict standing above your crumpled form. The first thing that you thought was that he looked banged up. His headband was bloodied, and some bandages wrapped around his forearms, tainted crimson from his own blood. A sharp exhale left your lips from the pain of sitting up, and you grimaced as your head continued to pound.
The convict left and then reappeared with a small, shitty medpack - a roll of bandages, some medical tape, isopropyl alcohol and a couple of bandaids was what you could manage to recognise as it laid open beside him. He kneeled down beside you, and you raised a shaky hand and felt the back of your head, feeling how sticky and wet your hair suddenly was, and how a stinging and burning pain - like a needle pricking your skin over and over - erupted.
Pulling your hand back, you saw how thick blood covered your fingertips. “We should bandage that,” The convict said in a quiet tone. The hushed voice being out of concern for your possible concussion, or trying to keep oxygen wastage to a minimum, you didn’t know.
The idea of The Butcher bandaging you up swirled a concoction of anxiety in your stomach.
It was hard to imagine him as anything other than the Eden cultist who killed 62 people.
“I can do it,” You reasoned and leaned forwards to grab the bandages off him, but he childishly pulled his arm back out of your reach. Another part of your body set alight with pain, and you made a choked, sharp noise. Rolling up your scratchy sweater in a hurry, not really caring for what the convict saw (he could handle some slight underboob, there were other issues at hand), and hissed as you saw a giant gash on your stomach.
It wasn’t deep, and would scar maybe very lightly (if you could even get out of this metal death box-), but it was still pooling blood inside the wound and dripping down your lower stomach. “Okay, maybe not,” You mutter, feeling a bit queasy and light headed. Blood and gore wasn’t something that upset you - maybe just the circumstances you were in and injuries you sustained weren’t helping the sense of impending doom. You hastily shoved your sweater back down, covering the wound.
The convict let out a small, deep chuckle at your remark. It was low pitched, but comforting. His dark brown eyes seemed to twinkle and a tiny smile graced his face, and you felt your own lips quirk up slightly.
Wordlessly he began to bandage your head, having to scoot forward and nearly cage you in. He had a medium sized frame, muscle obviously underneath his clothes even though you couldn’t really see it. The C.O.I couldn’t afford to tailor things or have too many different sizings, the clothing you received was almost always baggy. He seemed to fill his out, though.
The tenderness in his touch was unnerving, and it didn’t help that he was relatively silent. You felt him brush his hands against your forehead, probably moving uncooperating hair out of the way, before the rough cotton laid flat on your skin. He tied and tucked the bandage into itself on the left side of your head.
The two of you locked eyes before he bashfully looked away and vaguely gestured to your stomach. “We should probably bandage that too,” He said, voice trailing off, but turned around to grab the isopropyl alcohol instead. “Lay down,” He commanded, and you couldn’t help but bite your tongue and listen.
The metal grates, flooring and walls dug into your skin and bones uncomfortably.
“You’re a quiet guy,” You offhandedly comment. Maybe the blood loss and concussion was making you a bit more bold.
You laid out the bait to the start of a conversation.
“How so?”
He willingly bit the hook.
You shrugged in response, “I thought The Butcher would be- Ow, Jesus fuck- a bit more aggressive,” You say, wincing and hissing as he poured small amounts of the disinfectant into your wound. Looking up at his face as he hovered over you, you saw him falter in his actions before shifting to grab the roll of bandages.
“How do you know I’m The Butcher?” The convict questioned, not accusingly, just with flat curiosity. “Not hard to put two and two together,” You reply. A few beats of silence passed.
“No point in killing the only other person down here with me,” He stated in response to your previous comment regarding aggression. You froze at how casually he said that, like murder was just… Whatever. He was quick to anger and physical violence, but not towards you. He hoisted you up by your waist to start bandaging your stomach, and you prayed to whatever Gods that were left that he just thought the physical touch made you tense up.
He wrapped the bandage around your midsection a few times, covering the gash and making sure it was tight enough to where it wouldn’t fall off but didn’t cut off circulation.
“Why are you down here?” He asked as he tied the bandage off and tucked it in between the layers. You slowly leaned up, posture slouched as you laid against the uncomfortable walls. He followed suit in your actions.
“I led a rebellion and failed,” You shrugged. The C.O.I ironically ruled with an iron fist, the treatment of the prisoners and the population was cruel. Something needed to change.
You did not bring that change.
“What’s your real story?” You question in response. There was nothing else to do down here but borderline interrogate each other. Your head pounded too much to care about the job and expedition you were meant to be completing.
He tensed. Jaw clenching.
Right. Touchy subject.
You instinctively scooted away from him slightly, scared that he may have changed his mind on killing the only other person here. You felt ready to run, maybe even throw a few punches, the fire always lit in your heart never allowing you to back down without a fight.
The fire dwindled as he exhaled.
“I took the fall for the explosion of the Filament Station,” He said, traces and hints of anger lingering in his voice like how smoke lingers in your clothes. Heavy. Thick. Stuck.
“I didn’t- I tried to stop them,” The convict continued on, voice cracking. The guilt was obvious through his softly shaking form. The silence that followed confirmed what you already knew to be true, anyways. He failed. And the Filament Station blew up.
The irony of your situations being the complete opposite of each other wasn’t lost on you. You incited and led a violent rebellion, and he unwillingly took the blame for one that he tried to stop.
You looked down at his left hand resting on the ground next to you. His fingers were laced with the metal grate beneath you two, thumb rubbing it in an almost self soothing manner.
“What’s your name?” You ask suddenly, voice maybe too loud for the previous shamed and hushed conversation. You felt his gaze pierce the side of your head, the prickly sensation of being watched. He took in a shuddering breath - like he hadn’t been asked that question in years.
“Simon,” He replied almost shakily, but still calm. You tested the name on your tongue, saying it aloud into the stale, recycled air. It suited him, you decided. It sounded nice. Simon - to listen, to hear, to understand.
Eden really was a religious cult.
You turned your head to the side and watched as Simon, the constant and the undiscovered (what was his favourite colour? What was Mars like? Did Eden treat him well?) Simon, who so desperately wanted to live - curling in on himself and taking shaky, gasping breaths suddenly.
You froze, apprehension filling your lungs and up your airways, leaving a bitter taste in the back of your throat. This was such a sudden change in emotion. Still, against your better judgement, you scooted back towards him, gently draping an arm around the back of his neck, resting on his shoulder. It was a shitty side hug, your movements a bit awkward, not knowing what was okay or not.
You whispered comforting words, saying that everything will be okay - you believe him. That he just wanted to help. That he doesn’t deserve to be down here, but you’ll fight tooth and nail for him.
His head was still in his knees, broken sobs rising up from the depths of his heart and spilling out his mouth, garbled and unintelligible words entering the space. Still, you sat by him and rubbed his shoulder, taking deep exaggerated breaths to try and get him to copy you.
His hand snaked up and firmly grasped yours, and you felt the motion of his thumb rubbing over your knuckles - the same, self soothing motion he did to the metal floor grate.
His sobs turned to small sniffles, to quivering breaths, to steady silence. His grip never loosened, and the two of you sat in silence, waiting until he felt ready enough to move on with the expedition.
The breakdown was gonna come soon, you muse, he was putting up such a strong front. He was just as scared and uncertain as you were, both knowing what would inevitably happen.
The radio crackled to life, and you cursed in shock, nearly slamming your already concussed head against the wall for the umpteenth time. “Convicts! Update on the sample?” The piercing and rough voice of the woman sliced through the air like a knife. “We’re fucking working on it!” You yelled back, not without sending an obviously confused glance at Simon (what fucking sample?). You still gratefully took the opportunity to take your anger out at the speaker - the bitch who signed off on yours and Simon's death. The woman paused, before nearly growling out the next words. “Get me the sample, and then you can come back up,”
You grasped Simon’s hands tighter, feeling the rough texture of his skin. Years of labour, of hard work, evidently shown. You felt his pulse quicken through his hand, from the prospect of freedom or close proximity to you, you weren’t sure.
“Is that a deal?” You call out, not really knowing what the fuck type of sample you’re meant to be getting, only worried about Simon getting the short end of the stick - he deserved his freedom more than you did, anyways.
There was more blood on yours hand than his.
A sharp inhale was heard through the mic. “Yes, convicts, that is a deal,”. Her voice was almost emotionless, it unnerved you from how she could go from spitting venom to just the hint of disdain and controlled anger peaking through. “Make it quick. You don’t have unlimited oxygen,” She continued. It was a vague threat, and you heard that sadistic sweetness in her voice once more.
The two, green lights left glowing on the oxygen meter was something you tried to ignore.
“Get the sample, then we’re free,” You heard Simon mumble to himself. He stood up, taking you with him as he refused to unlace your fingers. His boots made the metal flooring creak as he walked towards the control panel, and begrudgingly sat down on the chair. He looked at your hands together as you stood next to him, and reluctantly let go to hold onto the engine’s power lever.
“Our freedom,” You say, louder and more confident. You were an angel, Simon decided suddenly. An unwavering force of beauty and strength. He was never really religious, especially not after leaving Eden, but that was the only logical answer he had.
He quietly prayed inside his own mind and thanked any God that he was stuck here with you.
You were the hope he needed.