Chapter Text
Ryland Grace really shouldn’t be here.
He belongs in the classroom, shaping the future—forget the terrifying lack of one.
Teaching is his job; it’s what he does. But one day, he made just one accidental discovery that, unfortunately, explains way too much about what’s happening to the sun. And, if he were honest, he’d rather it didn’t. Should’ve left that top-league stuff up to the professionals.
His boots clomp against the metal flooring, boarding the Invincible II with false honor. There’s no time to figure it out. No time to get familiar with the mechanics of a spaceship, let alone being in charge of one. Distantly, he wonders what happened to the first Invincible, then shudders at the thought.
Cool steam diffuses through the entryway as a man with a zealous smile greets him. “Welcome to the Invincible II, Captain,” he says before shaking Grace’s gloved hand with his own firmly. “Mark. Glad to have you here.”
The title just sounds wrong. Grace is used to many names now: “Ryland,” “Rye,” “Ry-ry,” “Sir,” “Mr. Grace,” “Dr. Grace,” “Grace,” “Smartass,” “Fuckwit,” but not Captain.
He’s nearly too lost in the thought to notice someone lying slack on the floor, their limp body getting carried out by two medics, but his glasses fall to a slightly crooked tilt as he notices. Just then, a bead of sweat trickles down the curve of his back, his suit feeling way too warm. Out of the corner of his eye, another person—God knows who—grabs an extinguisher.
Mark is still talking, as if his surroundings aren’t the least bit alarming. “Took you long enough, but lemme give you the grand tour before we embark.” He leads Grace further into the ship. Grace quickly adjusts his glasses, barely catching one of the medics wailing pitifully above the slack figure. Before he can question anything, he’s being ushered away, and a cool breeze settles over the atmosphere again.
“This is my pride and joy,” Mark continues, stepping into what Grace can only assume is an elevator. “My baby! Well, this ship is your baby now, I guess. But I made her.”
“Would that make me the stepfather?” Grace awkwardly chimes in.
Mark lets out a hearty chuckle at that, sounding genuinely amused at Grace’s small remark. “Hah, let’s not go too far just yet,” he giggles, wiping his eye.
Grace couldn’t help an insignificant grin.
BIO-SCAN.
A robotic voice booms as a wave of soft blue rays washes over the two, scanning and registering their distinct parameters. Grace almost flinches while Mark stands tall and proud of the system he programmed.
WELCOME ABOARD, CAPTAIN GRACE, AND HEAD ENGINEER. PREPARE FOR STERILIZATION.
Grace bites back an agitated noise as a flash of white temporarily knocks him out of his senses. He barely blinks away the bright, flashing colors before the steel doors open, and, to everyone’s surprise, Mark begins to talk again.
“First stop, the warp core. The heart and soul of the ship,” he declares, stepping out into—
—light. Not sunlight. Not artificial, either. It spills upward from below, cutting through the space in slow, pulsing waves. Grace hesitates at the threshold. The space buzzes with layers of machinery whirring somewhere out of sight. He can’t see half of it, but can still hear all of it. Grace reluctantly steps out.
The floor is solid. Good. That’s good.
He looks up and immediately regrets it.
The ceiling doesn’t end. Metal scaffolding stretches upward into the glow, thinning out until it’s impossible to tell where the structure stops and the light begins. Grace’s stomach drops like he’s missed a step.
Mark glances back at Grace, taking his expression for one of amazement. “She’s a beauty, ain’t she?” He beams.
Grace nods, though he can’t even hear him.
There are people everywhere. Scattered scientists move along suspended walkways, hunched over consoles, tracking measurements that nobody else can track as quickly. Every surface is alive with motion, blinking indicators, flowing data, and somehow, as if the rough edges of time aren’t grinding everyone into fine powder back on Earth, this is his responsibility.
He swallows hard. This is fine. Yes.
“Yeah, we’re still not 100% sure how this thing works, but you don’t need to know how something works in order to use it,” Mark says confidently.
“That’s… comforting,” Grace manages, his mind still out at sea.
“When we found it again, it passed every safety test with flying colors!”
Something pops behind him.
Someone yanks their hand back from a console, swearing under their breath as sparks spit and metal hisses. Grace’s head snaps toward it, but when he looks back, Mark is already moving—too close to that shifting hue of energy for comfort. Without thinking, Grace hurries after him. What is this dude’s problem?
“This time,” Mark continues, “the Invincible is finally gonna live up to her name.”
“No doubt about it,” Grace murmurs uncertainly.
“But just in case,” Mark adds, “I built in a special precaution.”
Mark and Grace delve into another part of the ship, the steel walls closing in, more contained. The light fades too fast, and Grace blinks, trying to force his eyes to adjust. He glances around and makes the connection that this is where the ship links to the warp core. Insane how such an integral piece can be so narrow.
“If anything goes wrong,” Mark explains as he walks backwards, “we can detonate these explosives and separate the warp core from the rest of the ship.” He imitates an explosion with his hands. Grace barely reacts; he’s too busy looking elsewhere.
The hum of the entire ship seems grounded here. Small red modules line the corridor at regular intervals, faintly glowing. At first glance, they resemble alarms. Upon squinting, Grace discovers that they’re not alarms.
They’re charges. And there are enough of them to tear this entire section apart.
“Y’know, Captain, I have yet to meet a problem that can’t be solved with explosives,” Mark says, tone weightless as doors open smoothly.
Grace chuckles uncomfortably. “You and the rest of the world, alright…”
Mark grins at that. “Speaking of explosives—” he steps into the room behind him, making a grand gesture— “the main reactor!”
Alright, Grace mentally reviews as he exhales deeply. Warp core, a huge mysterious thing of blinding energy. Not sure how it works, not sure how dangerous it is. Explosive triggers, utilized to sever the ship from said mysterious thing of blinding energy. Right. That’s nice. What’s next?
He steps into the next room and immediately regrets not closing his eyes.
Light burns like a welding torch, or like Icarus. He lifts a hand instinctively, peeking through it. Mark remains unaffected, talking about something that may or may not be crucial—Grace doesn’t quite catch it until Mark says the word “joules.”
“What was that?” Grace asks, sounding a bit more exasperated than intended.
“This baby takes many, many joules per second to tear open a wormhole—almost as much energy as a star would use, so a star I built,” Mark replies. “Mayhaps one day we could just explore the universe as it is with the help of a real star, but since they’re, ah, dying, this is the next best thing.”
“I’m sorry—did you say wormhole?” Grace echoes.
“Yeah! Real handy for quick traveling.”
A glass display gleams behind Mark. Layered metal rings wrap around it, cables feeding in from every direction, but the thing itself—the core—doesn’t look mechanical. It looks like something that shouldn’t be inside a ship, a miniature sun. Right. Because that makes sense.
“Built her like a tank, too,” Mark chuckles, playfully knocking the console with the bottom of his fist. He starts towards the next room.
Grace doesn’t move. He opens his mouth, then closes it, unable to conjure a sentence, a command, anything. His eyes stay fixed on the console, where the screen flickers. Images distort; lines melt into one another, numbers folding in on each other. The light inside the housing flares brighter and brighter until heat presses against the glass, and Grace is too close to the sun, wings of wax melting over his shoulders with an excruciating sizzzzzzzle.
There are a million ways this could go wrong, a million wrongs and no solutions, all of the ways this ends in—
A steel shield slams down over the window. All goes quiet.
Well, there’s that solution, Grace thinks.
Someone had hit a big red button on the corner of the console—that’s what that button was for. Grace makes a mental note of it as another man’s hands slide off the button.
“Burt,” the burly man promptly introduces himself.
Grace nods, eyes still a bit wide as he offers a timid salute—why did he do that?—and forces out, “Hi. I’m Grace.”
“Yeah. We know.”
Burt moves off without another word. Grace’s hands hover uselessly at his sides.
“Yeah, that’s Burt,” Mark cuts in. “He makes sure that the ship don’t go boom!”
“That’s great,” Grace replies, but even as Mark moves forward, his eyes linger on the console, the shield, the window behind the shield, and Grace can still feel the heat, even with the shield down. Maybe that’s just his imagination. Either way, his pulse hasn’t caught up.
“Hey,” he starts, “shouldn’t we check for any malfunc—?”
“Next up is Cryo!” Mark announces gleefully.
Grace blinks and Mark is already standing before the next threshold. Hesitant, Grace glimpses once more at the sealed panel, adjusting his crooked glasses, before he turns and follows the engineer.
The doors open, and an injured scientist—a fresh bruise blooming under his eyes—walks out with crutches tucked into his armpits. “Hey, Mark,” he greets as he ambles off.
For the first time, Mark looks taken aback before quickly regaining his composure, patting the poor guy on the back, dismissing him, and heading into the cryo chamber. Again, Grace’s eyes linger, a pang of compassion prodding his heart, but Mark guides him along before his gaze (or sympathy) could dawdle. He walks to it, and Mark is distantly rambling, but all Grace can focus on are the rows. Capsules line the chamber beyond the glass, each one dimly lit from within. Grace doesn’t step any closer. He stares at the chambers, then at Mark.
“How many people are in there?” he asks breathlessly.
“Only a few hundred specialists,” Mark waves it off, like he’s talking about spare parts instead of people.
Grace jerks slightly. “Why—why would we need that many on a mission trip?”
“Backups,” Mark says brightly. “Very important in space.” Not elaborating, he flashes a quick grin, already half-turned to head to the next door, until he bumps into someone, and a look of mild disdain settles over his features like ice.
“CC,” he grits.
“Asshat,” she returns without missing a beat. Then she turns to Grace. “Celci,” she greets warmly. “Nice to finally meet you.”
That name makes too much sense. Grace brushes off his existential dread to shake her hand. “Grace,” he says. “Pleased to be here, Celci.”
“All specialists are prepped and stable. Systems are holding,” she says, voice as steady as the cool surroundings. “They’ll be ready when you are.”
Celci reminds Grace of a coworker from the middle school he taught at; she was always more organized. Before he can break into a full, genuine smile—the first genuine smile since he’s boarded the ship—Mark steps in.
“And we’ve been ready,” he interjects, invading Celci’s personal space. “We’ll go so far, maybe we’ll find a galaxy made solely of stars!”
She rolls her eyes, exhaling through her nose. “Maybe you’ll find one where your brain isn’t stuck up your ass.”
Mark pouts, stumbling backwards while doors automatically slide open. “Maybe I’ll find one where you’re not so mean!” he huffs. “Besides, what could go wrong with a crew like this?”
“I couldn’t begin to imagine,” Grace comments as he follows Mark.
Crew members move through the corridor in uneven bursts. One slips past Grace while another loiters in a doorway like they’ve forgotten what they were doing.
“ADS is good to go,” a man with a bandolier strapped across his chest ambles out, then smirks at Grace. “Don’t worry, Captain. No asteroids getting by me, you can count on that.”
Grace prays that his nod of acknowledgment is seen as respectful and not condescending—not that he often mixed up the two. The man just winks and walks off, but not without slapping Mark’s rear. “Dammit, Gunther,” is all he indignantly mutters.
Chatter overlaps, dissolving into the kind of noise that only exists to listening ears, and after spending a good amount of time teaching, Grace has taught himself how to not listen to some of the things kids spout out. Yet he can still feel it.
People look at him for a second too long before turning away, whispering all sorts of things with the distinct theme of skepticism—“That’s him?” “He figured it out?” “He’s in charge?” Some others straighten as he passes, not quite meeting his eyes.
They know. Of course they do.
And it lands wrong, pressing down on Grace’s chest. Mark doesn’t slow down until they are in front of another door. “Life support is online, unless it’s not, and then we wouldn’t know until we passed out.” He pauses, then appears satisfied. “Seems fine! Everything is accounted for.”
Is it, though?
“Let’s get ready to save the world, Captain. All that’s left now…” Mark trails off, stepping to the side to make room for Grace’s entrance.
For the millionth time, the doors open, and for the first time, Grace truly wishes he could turn back.
The cockpit should feel like a breath of fresh air. It’s wider, yes, but that just means there’s more room for people. Too many people, and eyes—too many pairs of eyes—are all on him, raising a toast. Grace feels like his lungs are being squeezed of all their oxygen.
“… is for you to say it,” Mark finishes, handing Grace a tall glass. “Try not to get them too excited. We know your ways with words can get people… riled up.”
Who would’ve thought lecturing a bunch of children is easier than attempting to utter a singular word to your new crew of specialists? The lights are burning, the suit is suffocating, the “honor” is too heavy, and everything is about a second away from collapsing when Grace tries to articulate, “I just… I…”
I didn’t ask to be here. I wanna go home. I wanna go home. I wanna go homeIwannagohomeIwannagohome
“… I’m just so grateful for this opportunity,” he delivers, feigning integrity. “Let’s do it. Let’s save the sun.”
Much to his surprise, the crew is pleased with his performance. The applause is tangible, so easy to get lost in, and it’s nearly deafening before the system announces:
WARP CORE ENGAGED. WORMHOLE OPENING IN 30 SECONDS. ALL PERSONNEL REPORT TO YOUR ASSIGNED CYRO-POD.
The signal rings, and the crew exits to their cyro-pods, leaving Mark and Grace in the cockpit. The engineer downs his champagne. “What an entrance, right?” he chuckles.
Grace laughs with him, struggling to find humor in any of this. He tells himself that he’ll eventually ease into the rhythm of this ship—the erratic, battered rhythm—and all will be fine. That’s all he needs right now. Just fine.
As he’s already dizzy enough, he hands his glass to Mark, who shamelessly indulges in it. The engineer pops open his locker, tossing the empty glasses and beret in there. The signal is still going off, washing the room in an obnoxious red, and Grace can’t help but think of it as a stubborn alarm.
“Well,” Mark says, “that should be all.”
Grace shifts his weight from one foot to the other, the alarm still ringing in his temple. “Should be?” he repeats, images of the warp core, the artificial star, the possibility of everything going up in flames still fresh in his mind.
Mark tilts his head to look out of the giant glass window, thoughtfully gazing at the stars (or lack thereof), before turning back to Grace with a casual shrug. “Yeah,” he says easily. “That’s all.”
Well, that answers all of my questions, Grace thinks, bordering on unadulterated snark before reeling back in. Mark is the head engineer. Grace might be the captain, but this is Mark’s ship. He knows what he’s doing, right? Forget the last Invincible. Mark has learned from previous mistakes, hasn’t he?
Grace can’t stop himself from pressing, “You sure? There is absolutely nothing else you’d like to communicate?” He gestures between them, talking with his hands like he would inside the classroom.
“My parents didn’t show me a lot of love when I was a kid, but that’s just the past,” Mark replies with his unique brand of optimism, mistaking Grace’s question as an invitation to trauma dump many light years away from Earth.
Grace blinks. “Sorry. Um. Alright then.” He really doesn’t know what else to add.
But that’s not a problem; Mark always has something to add.
“I look forward to working with you.” His voice has less boom to it now, catching Grace off guard—shocker, right?—yet again.
Grace nods, throat dry as he manages a stupidly shy, “Same.”
With that, they retire to their cyro-pods, separate from the rest. Grace steps into his chamber and the door seals with a faint hiss. The signal outside fades into silence. He exhales quietly, yet it sounds loud in the tight space. He just got here, yet stillness is already a foreign concept. Cold seeps in, not unwelcoming, but not friendly. Just then, his muscles sag, weighing him down with exhaustion. As if gravity’s been dialed up.
A panel flickers to life in front of him, all sorts of data illustrated cleanly. Vitals, status, countdown… Ready to drift off into a soundless sleep, he focuses on each digit. Numbers make sense.
WORMHOLE OPENING IN 10, 9, 8…
“Okay,” he mutters to no one, eyes fluttering shut on their own. “Okay. That’s fine. That’s—“
The screen flickers again, flashing red.
ERROR.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
WORMHOLE OPENING IN 3, 2—
Grace lunges forward as much as the restraints allow, tapping on every button on the screen with oozing inexperience, not knowing what anything does. The chamber is too small for so much panic.
“C’mon,” he grunts, “something—do something—just fix this—”
Another window forces itself on the screen.
A SOFTWARE UPDATE IS AVAILABLE. WOULD YOU LIKE TO RESTART TO APPLY THIS UPDATE?
“No!” Grace wails.
The pod whirrs beneath him, straining. His gloved finger twitch as he fumbles, yanking himself loose, movements jerky and uncoordinated. “Fudge!” He recklessly beats his head with the heel of his palm, frustrated and not even thinking as the display jumps. Percentages blur together. Before Grace can stop anything, everything around him breaks.
Time isn’t linear. It pulls in ways Grace can’t follow. Big drops were never his thing. He never went on rollercoasters. Now he’s torn from his physical form—his body—as his conscience free-falls into a void, although there’s nothing to fall through. His heart might as well rocket out of his chest, but his pulse doesn’t exist here. Wherever “here” even is.
Everything stretches, then caves in like it’s been knocked loose. Sounds overlap, voices he doesn’t recognize, the wind overlaps, no direction in motion, then it all goes dark.
“... Don’t give up, Rye...”
His psyche slams sideways into his head, violently pulled back as oxygen tears into his lungs. He chokes, hand sliding down the cold metal as he coughs. The pod is still closed and too small. The screen above him steadies.
SOFTWARE UPDATE COMPLETE.
Grace doesn’t wait. He shoves the door open and stumbles out.
The cockpit is drowning in an emergency red light, alarms blare, the floor vibrates under his boots. He staggers to the console, scanning it uselessly. The symbols might as well be another language.
Ryland Grace is a molecular biologist.
Ryland Grace is a schoolteacher.
Ryland Grace is a failure and so much more.
He is not a captain.
That hits harder than the lack of air.
Eyes watering, he spots a big red button on the corner. He slams his hand down on it.
A shield clamps down over the viewport, just in time for something to hit. Something shatters behind the metal. Grace flinches. That’s not great. None of this is. Everything’s wrong, so, so wrong, and it’s not like I can fix—
“Mark,” Grace realizes out loud. He rushes toward the pod, and it opens before he reaches it.
Mark falters out, strands of dark hair falling in disheveled waves. “Captain,” he pants, disoriented, “what the hell is going on?”
Like hell if Grace knows.
He doesn’t have to say it. Not as if he gets the chance to say anything before the air boils feverishly. He stills, every muscle locking in place. “Do you feel that?” he utters.
“Right now? I’d say I feel too much—”
For once, Mark’s the one getting cut off as light catches—not the sterile, artificial light they’re used to. It presses against their skin, a warning more than a sight. They feel it before it blossoms.
Fire surges up from the console in a fierce rush, splitting into long, wavering tongues that snap and curl with a life of their own. They lick across switches and dials, spitting sparks. Heat slams outward in thick waves, carrying the bitter reek of burning circuitry.
The orange glow floods the room, illuminating the atmosphere.