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☄︎ context: in space with markiplier part 2 -- where in the world is markiplier? (timestamp 00:23)
Simon has been stuck in an orbiting med-bay for two months. He has to admit, it was true what Mark said — as the Captain, a stoic and strong leader in the face of the unknown, you had quite a bit of pull to you. That’s probably why it was so hard to get a hold of you; you were too busy spearheading expeditions and constructions and surveys on the planet successfully colonized by those aboard the Invincible II.
How the hell some far-off part of the universe survived the Quiet Rapture is a total mystery to Simon, but he can’t find it in himself to give a shit. He has a home now, and quite possibly a future. No, he doesn’t know if he deserves it or not, but he’ll take anything you give him. You’re the Captain, after all.
Simon’s eyes snap to the door as it hisses open. Someone steps through, but it’s not any of the doctors or nurses he recognizes. “Are you…” He swallows to wet his throat. “Are you the Captain?”
“Yes sir, I am.” You take off your cap and hold it over your chest, then bow slightly. You prattle off your full title and place of study and that you are, of course, the proud Captain of the Invincible II. “Firstly, I must apologize. Some things on Damu required a more watchful eye, and you happened to appear at the exact worst time. It’s a pleasure to meet you, and I apologize again for not seeing you sooner.”
Simon stiffens under the formal language — it reminds him too much of the chalk halls and strict rules of Eden. He watches silently as you sit at the chair provided at his bedside, then cross one leg over the other and lean back. Your stiff Captain’s coat makes you sit up very straight. “How has your stay been so far? Have you been treated adequately?”
“Can you cut the shit?” Simon snaps. His eyes flit to yours, then away. “I get that I’m not that important. Is there a cure for this or not?”
You stare at Simon, then drop the small, polite smile you were carrying. “I regret to say there isn’t. My medical team tells me they’re waiting for your body to naturally rid itself of the intruder, but I doubt it ever will.”
“What — what do you mean?” Simon says. His eyes snap to you as pushes himself up against the headboard of the hospital bed. “Is it gonna kill me?”
“Of course not.” You uncross your legs and lean forward, your elbows on your knees. Your face turns more serious as you continue. “Pardon my saying, but as the Captain, I have to assess situations without bias, not even basic empathy. If you were someone I deemed my team was unable to save, you would’ve been given options for palliative care — but you’re not in palliative care, are you?”
Simon glances down at the blankets bunched up in his lap and realizes that you’re right. You’d be an inefficient Captain if you let emotion cloud your judgment. He looks out of the ultra-reinforced glass window at Damu, at the lush green forests and at the water that cuts through the land. Mark had explained to him the meaning behind the name — Damu was the Mesopotamian god of vegetation, and sometimes healing. During the conversation, he recalled you getting way into a paper about Damu in Ancient Earth Cultures 201, and swearing to name a planet after him one day. “It’s been over two hundred years since we graduated, with cryo and all,” Mark had said, “but the Captain makes good on every promise they make! They promised that every colonist would be safe, and… wouldn’t you know, everyone is!” Mark’s voice was enthusiastic and laced with laughter — but even when he paused, Simon could tell his confidence in you didn’t falter for one second. If Mark was faking belief, he’d be able to tell — he felt a whole hell of a lot of fake belief when he set those charges on Filament Station.
“You haven’t seen a planet in a long time, have you?” Your voice is notably softer when it meets Simon’s ears this time. He looks at you, and your expression has dropped most of the pretense of you being a Captain. You look… more human now. You look more like Simon.
“It’s been… twenty-nine years, I think,” Simon manages to say. He grits his teeth as his throat starts seize and close and tears start to burn in his eyes. A violent cough racks his body, forcing him to double over as breath leaves him in sharp wheezes. You lean over and wordlessly press the button to call the nurse.
Mark shows up instead moments later, with multiple drinks in each hand. “I heard your coughing and I prepared these right away! I have water, I have coffee, I have one with prickly pear syrup, I have one with beetle honey —”
“Thank you, Mark.” You place a hand on his upper arm. He stills, and you take the water and the purple drink from his hands. It takes a moment, but Mark sighs with a smile and gives you a “Yes, Captain.” You give him a knowing smile back. He turns and exits the room, tapping the sensor with his boot to shut the door behind him. Even around you, the head engineer is an overenthusiastic mess. It’s sometimes charming, Simon supposes.
You place the drinks on the bed tray and wheel it so that Simon can reach both. He looks at the purple drink with a hint of suspicion, and you pick up on it. “It’s warm milk mixed with cactus pear extract. It’s a little too sweet for my taste, but the syrup is an easy remedy for sore throats. It’s your choice — or I could call Mark back in.”
You’re… giving him a choice. You’re giving him all of the information he wanted but didn’t even ask for, and you’re doing it so easily — not trickling the truth or lying by omission. It takes a few seconds for the thoughts to actualize in Simon’s head. He looks down at the drinks, then picks up the milk and swirls it in the glass. The ceramic is warm against his fingers. “It’s okay. Uh, Mark said it was… prickly?”
“Y… Yes?” You think for a moment, then cross an arm over your chest and hide a smile behind your hand when you realize what Simon is asking. “It doesn’t have a prickly mouth-feel, no. The fruit itself has thorns, which are carefully burned off before the manufacturing process begins. There’s no need to worry.”
Simon stares at the drink in his hand like it’s the most interesting thing in the world and wills his face not to burn. Now that you say it, yes, that explanation makes way more sense, and should’ve been the first he considered. He brings the glass to his lips, and warm, sweet milk washes over his tongue and soothes his throat. It kind of reminds him of the reconstituted watermelon and dehydrated berries he had when he was a kid, before all the planet-grown fruit ran out.
“May I ask my question again?” You ask. When Simon glances at you and furrows his eyebrows, you continue. “Have you been treated well? My doctors send every report topside, but it’s important that I hear it from you.”
He nods, looking down at the milk and the slight purple color it leaves on the walls of the ceramic after he swirls it. You’re entirely too earnest with how much care you’re showing for him, a virtual stranger. You trusted your doctors enough for them to resurrect everyone from cryo, but you need to know for yourself how he’s doing? And you’re going so far as to say it’s important to you, as if you don’t have a thousand other things to do? It stirs something in him. It’s warm and weird and Simon isn’t sure if he wants to feel it at all. “They’ve been nice,” is all he manages to say.
Simon can feel you stare holes into the side of his head as he sets the glass down on his bed tray. It wasn’t the answer you were looking for, was it? Did you want names? Dates and times of conversations? Or are you more sadistic than you let on — are you looking for someone to punish? Are you looking for a scapegoat, like Ava?
“Good.” Your gaze lifts and he feels as though an actual weight has been lifted from his shoulders. You breathe in and lean back, crossing one leg over the other again. “And the doctors have informed you as to why you haven’t been fit for a prosthetic yet?”
“The whole thing with the… intruder,” Simon says. It’s hard to condense into a few words. “Waiting for my body to be clean so the prosthetic doesn’t get used to it instead of me.”
“Exactly. Our unprecedented technology can adapt to anyone, almost negating the loss of the limb entirely.” You run a hand over your left forearm, and your eyes drift to the stump that’s left of Simon’s shoulder. “Tell me, Simon — are doctors always right?”
His eyes snap to yours when you actually say his name. When She was saying it — whatever She was, anyway — it was barking, demanding. She wanted him to do something and freely manipulated him to do it. But the way you said Simon; the way you said tell me, like you wanted to hear his actual opinion instead of assigning him your own; the way your voice is soft and inquisitive and without any hint of a motive besides wanting an honest conversation with him…
“Um…” Simon blinks hard, and it takes him a second to remember what you asked. He got distracted. He shouldn’t be distracted. “I-I wouldn’t know. I’m not a doctor.”
You hum thoughtfully and seem to take what he said into consideration. “I doubt this is a secret, but I’m not a doctor, either — but I know for a fact that doctors are sometimes wrong. I know for a fact that Captains are sometimes wrong, because I am sometimes wrong.”
Simon looks at you weirdly. Why are you saying this? Did you change your mind about him? Do you want him gone? Or do you want him dead?
“As I said, I believe your body will never be rid of its toxin. I apologize for causing you distress when I first said it,” you say. Your hand goes to your upper arm. “Our prosthetics are engineered to shift and adapt to the user’s unique body biome. This includes any drastic genetic malformations — or, in your case, something worse. Unfortunately, higher quality parts are needed to adapt to more drastic malformations.”
Simon can do nothing but watch as your fingertips deftly press into your left shoulder, right along your rotator cuff. Underneath the fabric of your uniform and the starch of your Captain’s coat, something clicks and detaches. You hold your left hand and pull to reveal your own prosthetic, which is grey with little black modules on the side. You look down at your arm, then up at Simon through your eyelashes. “I apologize for talking for so long, but I wanted to explain my reasoning before my offer. The chance of you getting a high-grade prosthetic like mine that adapts well is low. Forgive me if I’m overstepping.”
And you ask for his forgiveness as you hold out your prosthetic, offering to attach it for him. Simon’s hand shakes as he grips the bedsheets, desperately trying to ground himself amid this tidal wave of emotion that’s washing over him. He’s flattered — very! But he’s also guilty, because you shouldn’t have to go without for his convenience. Or would you prefer a one-armed life, and you’re looking for an excuse? Or maybe he’s a dick for thinking you have an ulterior motive when you really could just be that selfless? His face warms as shame pools in his toes but some different feeling, a much lighter one, gathers in his chest.
Before he can stop himself, he shakes his head vehemently. “N-No, it… I don’t…” I don’t deserve it. The words hang in the air, heavy and unsaid, and yet you hear them all the same.
You put your prosthetic in your lap and lean against the back of the chair, just watching him. Your eyes hold no judgment, and instead of looking at him with pity, you look at him as an equal. He doesn’t deserve to be looked at as an equal.
“I understand that you’re from a brutal and unforgiving place… and I understand your mistakes. I’ve made many. Too many.” You pause, and something unknowable passes over your expression. The next moment, it’s gone. “I’ve learned that there is no right moment for anything. If you wait for the right moment, there’s a chance you’ll be waiting forever.”
The chair scrapes softly against the tile floor as you come closer. You lean forward, your upper arm in your hand and a smile sneaking onto your face. The smile earlier was polite, while this one reaches your eyes and reaches out to something in Simon’s chest. “Do you understand what I’m saying? Allow me to lend you a hand.”
Simon stares at you like you’re an alien. Well, you’re technically human, just like him, but he hasn’t felt human in a long time. You’re asking his permission… to let you help him? It doesn’t make sense to him, but your words are deep, like you’ve been through this before — like you’ve extended a million olive branches and kept your grip on each one. Mark’s words about your promise to Damu surface in his mind; Mark’s words about your promise to every colonist surface in his mind.
Simon nods for fear of the words getting stuck in his throat. He holds up his arm and clenches his jaw to keep from cringing when he sees the ugly, still-healing scab. You put your prosthetic in your lap and pick it up at an awkward angle, then maneuver it so that it meets the black, heavy-duty stitching on his arm.
“Pull the flap over.” You nod at the thin piece of semi-translucent rubber on the end. Simon grabs it and pulls it up so that it’s flush against his skin. You make sure it’s attached properly, then carefully lay the prosthetic on the bed next to Simon. You turn your hand — his hand — so that it’s facing palm-down, and press a small button under the skin of the inner elbow.
The prosthetic makes a beeping sound, and you press the button in a pattern in response. It seems satisfied, and the fake skin starts to shift to match Simon’s skin tone. You let your hand rest in your lap. “There will be some odd sensations, but nothing painful, I assure you. You’ll need some time to get used to it, just as it needs time to get used to you.”
“Thank you,” Simon says, his voice strained. He turns towards the window and glances at the ceiling when he feels his waterline start to flood, blinking away the tears that threaten to fall. He clears his throat forcefully to prevent another coughing fit and sips at his prickly pear milk. It’s gone slightly cold.
“It’s no inconvenience. Everyone should be afforded a good life, no matter where you came from… or what you’ve done.” In the reflection of the window, Simon can see your jaw tick and your lips thin. You glance toward the sensor that Mark hit on his way out. When your eyes return to him, your conflicted expression is gone. “What matters is that you survived, and that you have a life to spend. You have a future on Damu, if you wish to take it.”
Another choice. You’re allowing him another choice, and it’s like nothing to you. You know how dangerous he can be; how many people he’s killed; how he fucked himself over in the name of a cult; how he prayed to a merciful god for complete destruction as he set the explosives on Filament Station. Yet, you’re still giving him a choice. It makes something desperate and distinct twist in Simon’s belly.
“What… What if I wanna leave?” Simon asks, slowly and cautiously. “Are there other solar systems?”
You hum and think for a second. “Yes, and I can arrange for a guide if you so wish. The closest inhabitable planet is Loro, which is in our neighboring system, the Aquarius Passage. We’re currently on the edge of the Svathra Cortex, so it would take a little over two Earth-years to reach your destination.”
He nods, then glances down at his left arm. Simon’s shoulder tingles with pins and needles, but they’re not painful — quite the opposite, actually. “And you’d let me keep this?”
You do that thing where you hide a smile behind your hand again, and Simon finds it hard to not find it… um, endearing? Can Captains even be described as cute? Because that’s not what you are, not at all — Simon doesn’t find you endearing or cute or hold any affection towards anyone aboard this med-bay at all, no. You’re a stoic and strong Captain in the face of the unknown and Simon is… perfectly fine. Yes, perfectly fine.
“It was never mine to begin with. I had it made for you,” you admit, a smile playing on your lips. “My prosthetic is back on Damu. It causes horrible pressure in my shoulder to fly with it. No one questioned the decreased mobility in my hand, as I’ve complained of it before. Please, regard it as a gift and not a debt.”
Simon is now no longer perfectly fine. He turns his head to look at you directly instead of watching you through the reflection in the window. Your eyes hold no hidden hate. Your expression is smug yet playful, like you’re proud of yourself for managing to sneak an entire prosthetic arm into the med-bay; like you’ve pulled one over on him by providing him with a prosthetic that, now that he thinks about it, fits him perfectly.
He swallows and nods, again for fear of the words getting caught in his throat or his tongue lolling out of his mouth or anything else that would further embarrass him. Because, yes, he’s embarrassed by the amount of care and attention you’re giving to him. He doesn’t know what to do or how to reciprocate and he feels like a foolish idiot.
You stand, the left sleeve of your uniform flopping limply as you adjust your Captain’s coat. “Thank you for indulging my questions, it was very enlightening. If you choose to leave, I’ll be there to see you off. If you choose to stay, I’ll be there to welcome you off the landing pad. I know this decision isn’t one made lightly, so I’ll give you some time alone to think.”
You give Simon another smile — an earnest smile, another one that reaches your eyes instead of barely moving your face. Simon finds himself giving one back. He’s sure it’s wobbly and lopsided and weird, but you light up just the slightest when he does so.
“I’ll have one of the nurses set up a network line for you, just in case you need to reach me.” You turn and step away, tapping the sensor with your boot like Mark did. You glance over your shoulder at him as the door closes, and he catches the slightest hint of a smile lingering on your lips. “I’ll be seeing you, Simon.”
Simon breathes out heavily a few seconds after the door fully closes. What were you doing to him? He could barely even talk in front of you. Was that what Mark was pointing at when he was regaling Simon with all the danger you’ve gotten everyone out of? Do you have such a demanding presence that he can’t help but stiffen and quiet?
No, you don’t. You’re forthcoming with kindness and probably went against many protocols by sneaking Simon a prosthetic. You were almost conspiratorial when you admitted it was made for him, like you trusted him to keep a secret. He spit in your face and you smiled with patience. You had patience.
Simon brings your left hand over his hard-beating heart and commands it to be still.