Chapter Text
Something is wrong.
You know it the minute you begin to rouse. Your nails feel too long as your hands curl defencelessly, testing your range of motion. Which, you find, is limited.
Your spine hurts the way it did when you were fifteen, lying in bed for hours on end until the base of your spine cried for mercy. Jesus, did you get railed? Not possible. Judging by the plastic jumpsuit clinging uncomfortably to every crevice of your body and the numbness of your limbs, it's more likely you were drugged, iced, and robbed of a kidney or two.
It takes embarrassingly long for you to notice the tube in your throat. More so because you don't notice until it's being slimily slipped from your oesophagus.
Your range of motion comes back in the form of a visceral lurch forward, bending over the side of the cot to heave spit onto the floor. Graceful.
"What is two plus two?"
The groan that leaves your throat is hoarse and indistinguishable from a gag. More exams? They don't usually do physicals and mentals at once, but time is running out, you suppose. "Fffff..."
"Incorrect. What is two plus two?"
"...Our! Fffffhorrre..."
"Correct. What is your name?"
"And you said your name is...?"
Your back straightens as you state your name to the older woman, a practiced, subtle smile on your lips. Poised. Perfect. Smoothed hair, professional posture, not a waver in your voice nor a sweat on your brow.
Competent. That is who you've always been, you're sure of it.
The woman — Eva Stratt — makes a sound that betrays no approval nor disapproval as she skims your file once again. "Impressive." She sets the papers aside and places her arms on the desk, levelling you with a challenging stare. You lift your head. "This job is not an easy one. And I can not tell you all of the details until you have accepted it, nor can you disclose any said details after acceptance. Understood?"
You work to keep your smile small. The workforce is a game of poker, and you'll be damned if you let her know how good of a hand you believe she has dealt you.
"Understood."
She stares for a moment, before sliding over a hefty contract with a sigh.
"In signing this, I hereby grant you top secret clearance to all details pertaining to Project Hail Mary. Welcome to being the assistant to the head of the International Petrova Taskforce."
With a slur of your name to this offending robot, it finally seems to leave you alone, curling back to do something else. Something you don't care about.
You busy yourself with kicking at your plastic constraints, wordlessly complaining when you find your efforts fruitless. Right, that's not how clothes work. Instead, you opt to roll over and kiss the padded floor with your face. Lord, your grace has no bounds.
Alerted by the thud, you hear hurried footfalls towards your location. The strange looking door hisses upon open, and you prepare for the offending sight of Dr. Paisley. Ugh, Dr. Paisley. That woman wouldn't know 'excessive caffeine intake' if it strolled into her physical examination room and took a shit on her desk.
But it is not the clean bob and comforting chub of Dr. Paisley that greets you. There is no soft chiding about rest, no cold 7eleven sandwich pushed into your hands.
No, instead a frazzled, homeless looking man braces himself against the doorway, stunned.
"....Oh my god, oh my god! Rocky, come see–!" He hesitates. "Actually, no Rocky! Don't come in here for like... a week!"
"Rocky no understand word. Rocky work!"
The second voice fades as this high-looking gas station attendant quickly slides the door shut, nearly tripping at it's weight.
"Okay! So..."
He claps his hands, wringing them nervously. His glasses slide down his face.
Your blank stare from the floor does nothing to ease his uncertaintly.
He spreads his arms wide. "You're awake! That's– that's awesome. Great. You're a little late, but that's fine. Nothing to be ashamed about."
An attempt to scoff is made, but it's more of a raspberry blown to the floor. I'm never late.
"You're going to be... you must be confused. I know I was. And scared, probably..." He steps forward lazily. "To answer all of the questions I'm sure you have – You're on the Hail Mary. We are in space, currently orbiting Tau Ceti. My name is Ryland Grace – I'm the molecular biologist on board. The others are..."
His voice becomes distant, and you stop paying attention. Your vision – sideways thanks to your balletic tumble – drifts slowly upward to the nearest, more interesting, stimulant. Another cot, upturned onto its belly to serve as a table and scattered with papers, devices, and strange bronzed models. Thanks to your horizontal state, you can still make out the text on the little green screen attached to it.
Yáo Li-jie : Deceased
HR - 0BPM
SpO² - 0%
"Doctor Grace," You speak as you approach, casting a withering glance at the cone nestled in the crook of his arm. You wonder if he's noticed it has a hole at the tip, from which skittles-infused puke leaks. "...Glad to see you made it safely."
"Thank you," Ryland croaks. He offers a hand to shake, but you reject it with a grimace of disgust, gesturing to his cone. Awkwardly, he hands it off to someone else and wipes his hands on his torso as he moves to follow you. "Uhm– and, you are...?"
The hangar is busy with people who know much better what they're doing than Ryland Grace. Someone hands Stratt two coffees. She neglects to share.
You state your name, and Stratt provides the rest.
"My assistant," She says. "Your boss."
"I'll be overseeing your work when Stratt is busy with other duties," You add. Ryland winces.
"Awesome. So glad to see women in power, you know? Big... big fan." He clears his throat.
You and Stratt share uncertain looks.
"Commander Yáo," The room goes stiff at your voice, all semblances of joy or relaxation seeming to desiccate. The man in question turns from where he was light-heartedly laughing with Ryland Grace, sighing. The killjoy has arrived, primmed in a perfectly ironed dress shirt with files tucked under her arm. Does she ever smile? Ryland wonders. He wants to make her smile.
"...Last time I checked, you and Doctor Grace are not working together for the next steps of this mission." You scold properly. "You were told to meet him, learn, and move on. He has important work to do."
Ryland looks awkwardly between the older man and yourself, wincing at the thick air between the two. He hates confrontation. "Hey– I mean... he's going soon, right? Shouldn't he get to enjoy himself?"
All eyes in the room go to Ryland. Including yours, narrowed dangerously. He talked back – in the politest way possible, but still. He talked back.
"...Yep, yep, getting back to work. You got it, boss."
Your stare into the mirror is blank, your head swaying a little bit with every tug of the brush through your overgrown hair. Ryland stands behind you as you sit before your own reflection, trying to restore you to your previous glory.
You've never seen yourself so disheveled. Your hair is far too long, split at the ends and riddled with wisps of gray. Your nails — now freshly cut — were long and jagged. A state you'd never allow yourself to reach under normal circumstances. And what are the circumstances? Why are you here? What purpose could you serve? Are you still just keeping an eye on distracted Doctor Grace?
You hope not.
"I'm sorry," He speaks. "I don't really remember how long you liked to have it." Ryland troubleshoots with the scissors until he reaches a length you deem familiar enough. Yes, that looks about right.
He looks up from his work to meet your eyes in the mirror. You don't like that look — wavering and concerned. "Are you... good? Can you talk alright?"
You look down at the hair on the floor to avoid his eyes. "Yes. Are you going to clean that up?"
Ryland sighs. He couldn't forget that pertinacious leadership if he tried. "Yep, yep..." He kicks the hair aside. "You got it, boss."
"...Who's Rocky?"