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Stagnant pulses of pain, reminiscent of an unnoticed bruise, beat through Simon’s veins. His fingers twitch.
There’s something like cloth under him, a hand scratching against fabric whilst the other remains numb. There’s substantial weight to every limb, even the trunk of his torso feeling heavier than normal.
He’s comfortable, though, all things considered. There’s an antiseptic sharpness that bathes his tongue, and it reminds him of many days getting scraped knees rubbed clean and dry.
The bed– Cushion, maybe– lays him flat without being overt in its stiffness. Like an actual mattress, not the half-assed plastic medical benches that Eden or even Filament tried to sell him on.
Warning gnaws at the back of his mind, pacing when he flexes his short attention to it.
Wrong. It provides, unhelpfully. Something is very, very, wrong.
He can’t help but agree.
A momentary thought passes in concern, and he reflexively swallows.
Just as quickly, he gags. Alarms, at first internal, turn external and spear through his eardrums– Fuck that, fuck this– He claws at his lips.
“Warning!” It chirps, “Substantial rise in heart-rate. Oxygen levels: Variable. Dropping 10%, 5%--”
Something clatters to the ground in his peripheral– “Woah, wait!”
Simon’s fingers find a plastic tube, then the tackiness of tape that he rips off his jaw. Another gag, this time more akin to a heave that brings up the sourness of bile to the back of his throat.
Out. Out! Out! His skin is aflame, nerves screaming, tingling alight with pins and needles.
He can’t breathe. He can’t fucking breathe– Are they killing him? Is this what dying is?
No. No. Simon has come too far for this– this pathetic attempt.
He yanks and plastic edges scrape up insides of Simon he never thought he’d ever feel.
“Don’t do that, don’t do that, don’t do that!” The words all run together in a panicked slurry, “Hang on! Armando– Armando! Don’t look at me like that! Help already!”
Fingers curl around his own. Simon throws his face this way and that, his own dirtied nails digging into plush skin.
“Ow! I’m sorry! I’m sorry, it’s bad, I know, I’m getting it out, I promise! Just– Just hang on.”
Simon’s hand is shoved astride his head and he just– He can’t get his other hand up for some reason? A growl peels from his lips, fury bright in his veins. Something sturdier, pronged, presses into his opposite shoulder.
His mind reels through the predictable, lethal, catalogue of options; Cattleprod? Stun gun?
“No, of course it’s my job now, stupid little… Whatever!” A bright bob of golden light dances into his vision, “Excuse me? Sir, please– Uh– Hi, I’m– Okay, my name is Ryland Grace and–”
Simon rears up his leg and kicks– Well, he kicks something. It clatters to the ground in a loud smash and Ryland doesn’t seem too pleased by it, considering how pale his face gets. A curl of pure selfish joy unfurls in his chest.
“Oh-kay! So, here we go!”
His face knits into one of concentration, gripping the piping and pulling slowly.
Another gag curdles in the back of his mouth, Simon’s eyes beginning to water. He claws at the sheets, chest heaving with heavy pained breaths from each agonizing inch freed from his throat until it passes his tongue and teeth.
He practically tosses the tube out of Simon’s sight, a blurry image of pale blue vanishing over the edge, “It sucks, I know. Trust me, I get it– Please listen to me now.”
Simon blinks, brows knitting as his vision tries to make sense of the colors and sounds. Two golden rings bear down on him from above, “My name. Me. I am Ryland Grace. Okay? From Earth.” He annunciates every vowel with practiced patience.
Does he think I’m stupid? Simon’s face scrunches, tips away, then– Earth? From Earth?
He’s nauseated from all the spinning. Simon lifts his hand– Surprisingly, Ryland seems to let him– and he pushes the ringed lights away. They vanish backwards into the misty distance.
“What is 2 + 2?”
“Thank you, Armando, maybe– Maybe not now, though.”
Simon turns on his side, sliding out from under the strong grasp, and coughs. “What the fuck is–” Another, drier, cough wheezes out of his scraped up lungs, “The fuck is going on?” His skull is full of a viscous soup of blood and brain-matter, all sloshing about the emptied out bone behind his eyes. It pulses and burns with pain.
“Okay, uh, careful. Be very careful, you’re a little high up right now and I didn’t have bedrails or anything. Oh– No, nope, nevermind you’re going–”
Simon manages to throw his feet under him, lumbering upright into a hunch. Grace– Ryland– Whomever– slides away with palms out.
He’s standing on… wood? “What the fuck?” Simon swallows hard, oogling the spread of his toes against the clear grain and knotted wood-- yes, wood– under his feet. And that’s– Well, that’s impossible. That’s literally impossible. The last tree died. Simon saw it die. Everyone knew it died, there’s nothing left to be harvested for– for flooring.
His balance tips and Simon balances himself on a threshold. Everything is cream colored and warm, structures like windows shining in gray toned light brighter than any fluorescent or candle. Simon turns back. A bed. And beyond, a machine arm that buzzes and whirs as it turns to face him.
Then it opens and retracts it’s soft prongs. Like a wave.
“That’s– Okay, so you’ve been asleep for a week and I really don’t think that’s a good idea right now. How about we get you back into a bed and you can–”
Simon shoves the heel of his palm against his temple, “God– Shut up! Shut the fuck up!” His breath comes out short, wet with phlegm and fear, “What the fuck is happening?” He rasps to himself.
Is he dead? Is he insane? Is this another trick? He can almost feel the ground opening under him, threatening to swallow him in waves of blood. He can still taste the viscera, coppery and foul, on his tongue.
“Hey. Look at me.” Simon’s head snaps to the command.
Ryland Grace blooms in and out of his blurry vision, a figure of watercolor. He’s dressed down in loose pants and socks, a faded shirt graphic reading; Be like a proton; Stay Positive!
“You’re fine, alright?” He says, head ducking low, like he was trying to cower under him, “Take it easy. What’s happening is that you’re moving around on fatigued muscles that haven’t done that in awhile, and you haven’t eaten solid food in who the hell knows how much longer. You’re weak, you’re tired, just… sit down before you bean your head on my coffee table.”
Talking hurts, but the words expel themselves before Simon can think them through; “Am I dead? Or– Am I dying?” He clenches his teeth, suddenly recognizing the chattering sounds are coming from his shuddering.
Ryland gives him a strained grin, “As far as I’m aware, no.”
His knees bend under him like jelly, and he slides to the floor with his back to a wall, “Don’t lie to me.” He hisses, energy oozing from his bones with every second, “Don’t fucking lie to me. I’m tired– I’m so fucking tired of this shit. If you lie to me I– I swear to god I’ll fuckin’ kill you.”
“Alright. Well, can you kill me from the bed, at least?” Ryland crouches, arms resting casually across his knees.
Simon sneers, “Don’t get smart with me!”
Ryland throws up his hands in quick response, “I just feel like we got off on the wrong foot! Extubation is– It’s really not a good way to meet a guy.”
He sucks in a slow breath through his teeth. Exhales it even slower. His head tips…
“Hey now!” Warm hands grab at his arm, clutch around his rib, “Hey, hey– Let’s do that in a bed, okay?”
Simon blinks. His nose is tipping towards the floor. When did that happen? Oh fuck, everything hurts.
The leaden weight of his soupy skull buoys him into Ryland’s grasp, knuckles bleaching white to hold tight to his arm. He can’t fall. He can’t lose any second. He’s not quite sure where he’ll go if he does.
“Fuck, he’s heavy. Hey– Armando, a little help?”
A little whistling whirr sounds from his left.
“Awesome. Thanks.” Ryland drawls back, bracing under his elbows.
Simon tries in vain to gather his feet beneath him, struggling with his eyelids as they weigh down towards the dark.
He grunts as he slumps against the bed. Accepts the cajoling under the covers, despite not understanding the importance. His head hits the pillow and the scent of something exotic and sweet fills his lungs, hidden by the clinical plastic smell.
“Ripped out all the IVs, y’know.” Ryland mumbles, picking back up his arm, “Lucky the main ones stayed in, but that could’ve really done some damage.”
A flash of fear runs through him. And his pulse picks up in kind, the alarms beeping loudly once more–
“Alright, alright, stupid thing.” He reaches over across Simon to click it silent, “Hey, don’t worry. It’s just saline and hydrocodone-acetaminophen. It’s– Y’know like Percocet? It’s not the same, but– No, you don’t look like you know a dang thing I’m saying, man.”
Simon wrinkles his nose. It’s… familiar, maybe. He remembers reading cache lists of medical supplies, storage units, of long winded names like that. That was a long, long, time ago, though.
“Listen, it’s the kind of stuff you’ve been on for a week now. If it’d kill you, it would’ve. Plus, Armando knows what he’s doing. Saved me a bunch.” Ryland says, screwing the tubing back together.
He pulls a little clear one from the crook of his elbow and winds it tight, and Simon can trace it all the way back to an IV bag hanging above him.
He flicks it once, inspecting the slow drip. “There. Looks alright. If it hurts still, I can try and bump it up.”
Ryland’s blurry figure shuffles awkwardly in place, “I– I know it’s hard, but try and relax, bud. Get some rest. It’s not like I’m going anywhere, you can ask me questions when you’re up for it.”
The machines beep away above his head. Oxygen hisses slowly out and in. There’s a twitching muscle under Simon’s skin that won’t go away. He just… shuts his eyes.
“...Alright. I’ll talk to you later, man.”
In a rush, Simon reaches out, hand wrapping around Ryland’s wrist.
“Simon.”
He can’t bear it. No more convict. No more butcher. No more empty space for someone to pretend he’s anything he’s not. Real or not, Simon wants to enter or end this with the name his mother gave him. Not one thrust upon him by his own mistakes.
Ryland places a hand over his own, leaning in, “What’s that? Wait– Did you–?”
Out of the foggy emptiness of the world beyond comes a bushel of dirty blonde hair, fragmented into small strands. A thin, straight nose and a half-done shadow of a beard– and a set of sharp, intelligent, blue eyes.
He can barely get a thought through the mental density clogging him down, but he knows for certain that Ryland Grace is giving him his full, focused, attention.
“My name is Simon.” He croaks.
His lips curl into a smile. “Well. Nice to meet you, Simon.”
Simon grunts, tipping his head away. “We’ll see.”