Chapter Text
Once, before the iron lung, before Filament Station, before Butcher became more title than joke, Simon came across one of Eden's cleaning bots.
It was an old unit. The whole line had been deemed beyond repair and sentenced to being stripped for parts. Pieces of them would be scattered across Eden, fused with each other and to other things so one final drop of usefulness could be squeezed out of them. The Father had told everyone to keep an eye out for stray cleaning bots. If one was found, it was to be brought to an engineer immediately.
Simon found this one in a corner, a tiny hidey-hole that he knew people liked to make out in. It was running into the wall over and over, beeping pitifully before trying again because it couldn't understand the obstacle before it. Simon spent a full minute watching it, wondered if the cleaning bot knew it was doing something stupid, and picked it up.
He'd intended to take it straight to an engineer, just like The Father said. But the thing beeped at him, almost like it was thanking him for the rescue, and Simon wavered.
Its life would end eventually. It was on the path to unavoidable destruction, and there wasn't any practical benefit to dragging things out. Simon knew he should take it to the engineer. He knew he'd be commended for catching a unit that slipped through the cracks. He knew that anything else would be a delay of the inevitable.
But if the inevitable was going to happen anyway, why not make it wait a little longer? So, on a mere whim, Simon placed the cleaning bot on the ground. It was faced away from the wall this time. A happy string of notes played like thanks as it whirled its way down the hall.
In a few minutes, someone else would find it. In a few minutes, it would be shut off forever and cannibalized by other machines in Eden. In a few minutes, it would cease to exist and a new cleaning unit would take its place until it, too, was deemed insufficient.
For just a few minutes, however, it would be contentedly sucking up dust, unaware of its fate.
Simon thought, as he watched it wheel away, that maybe it would even get lucky. It might find another little corner, slowly drain its battery ramming into the wall, and die of its own volition. Or maybe it would escape, find another cleaning bot, and somehow manage to evade capture with it. That would be a happier, unrealistic ending, but Simon allowed himself to believe it, just for a few seconds.
Something on Eden ought to have that chance.
Simon is back in the endless red void, staring up at the same unnerving eye. He's down an arm, up a few teeth visible through split skin on his cheek, and completely covered in blood. If nothing else, he at least blends in with the void.
The eye looks down at him. Its pupil dilates as though his presence is a surprise.
To be fair, it's a surprise to Simon, too. He expected to be dead. Maybe this is death. Maybe the eye is the all-seeing judge of his soul.
What was it the voices said?
A god peers through a narrow window and understands the universe beyond the glass as only what it sees, and reality shifts to match.
Or, well, something like that. It sounds poetic enough.
Where was he going with this?
Oh. Right. The eye.
He doesn't want to bother with this nonsense. Simon knows he won't be resting in peace. He wants to. He wants to cry and beg and make any deal he can for just a moment of peace. But no amount of wanting will change anything.
He wanted to live, and it didn't matter.
He wanted his freedom, and it didn't matter.
He wanted to make some kind of difference, and it didn't matter.
Frustration and anger and terror and grief claw through him. They slice through his stomach and burn his throat until he's choking on them. They pulse where his left arm ends and ache where his new teeth emerge from his gums. They root deep in his marrow, flood his veins, leak through every open wound until he's covered in them just as much as the blood.
A dull roar echoes in his ears. It gets louder and clearer until Simon realizes it's him. He's the one screaming, tearing his vocal chords to shreds.
It feels good.
Cathartic.
Simon is panting when his screams finally stop, and the eye hasn't moved. It just keeps staring.
"WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?!" Simon shouts, arm thrown out as his voice cracks. He can't get himself that loud again, but that doesn't stop him from trying. "Come on already! Just fucking finish it!"
For a moment, nothing changes.
And then the eye tilts. Not by much, of course. But it's enough for Simon to notice. It's not particularly malevolent. Neither is it kind or merciful. It is, from what Simon can tell, curious. The eye shifts slightly, as though looking him up and down, and blinks.
A decision seemingly made, the wind begins to howl. An incomprehensible, overbearing noise tears through Simon. He tries to block the wind with his arm, his eyes squeezed shut. Light flashes, burning his eyes despite their being closed. His body aches like never before, every cell screaming out in agony. It builds and builds into a fever-pitch that spirals through him until he can't tell if he's standing or floating or falling.
And then it stops.
Simon is on his back, sprawled across a familiar floor, surrounded by familiar creaks and groans. He gasps for air, unsure of when he'd started holding his breath at all. He opens his eyes, a fine layer of static-fuzz slowly clearing from his vision.
The iron lung surrounds him once more. It's covered in blood but no longer flooded by it. Sharp teeth pierce the metal on either side of him. Simon realizes the submarine is tilted when he sees the navigation panel bolted to the wall rather than the floor.
Everything still hurts, and Simon isn't sure if that means he's dead or not. Pain would be part of eternal damnation, right? His arm is still missing, which isn't nearly as telling as he'd like. Would his damned soul be whole, or is being forever fractured part of his suffering? Maybe it'll grow back only to be ripped off all over again.
With that cheerful thought, Simon decides it's time to get off the floor now. He pushes himself up, using one of the monster's teeth as leverage.
It's dead, he thinks. Simon can't imagine it would be so silent otherwise. "Good fucking riddance," he mutters. He stares at the tooth for a moment before grabbing the top and wrenching. It slices through his palm before fracturing and breaking off, but what's a little more blood after everything? He brushes his thumb over the tip of his prize before pocketing it.
With that done, Simon turns towards the navigation panel. "Let's see where we are," he says, voice rough but at least it fills the silence.
He takes a step forward and immediately trips over the radio box. Simon tries to catch himself but is thrown when only his right hand hits the sub. He pitches to the left, crashes onto his shoulder, and curses at the shock of pain that runs through him.
He's considering tearing the damn thing out—what use is a radio in Hell?—when it crackles. Simon blinks and stares at the blood-covered box. It crackles again like it's being tuned, and then, clearer than any previous transmission, Simon hears a voice. "Hello?" it says, seemingly hesitant. "Hello? Is anyone there?"
Simon doesn't know this voice. He knew the other ones…sort of. He knew, on some level, that those other voices could only be C.O.I. scientists and victims of the blood ocean. This one, though? Yeah, he's got no fucking clue.
"Hello?" the voice says again. "I, uh, don't know if you can hear me. Or understand me. Or are even conscious. But this is Dr. Ryland Grace—" a musical string interrupts the voice briefly "—yes, I know. And Rocky of the Hail Mary. We'd appreciate a response. If you can."
Something in Simon—probably that deep-rooted desperation to live—has him scrambling to the radio. He wipes off the blood he can before asking, "Are you real?" His voice cracks slightly at the end, but he doesn't care.
He hears more music. The notes sound…confused, almost. "Yeah, weird question," the voice says as though it understood the notes and agrees. "Uh, hey, man. Yeah, we're real. What's your name? Are you good in there? Actually, uh, how are you not dead right now?"
"Simon. My name is Simon."
When a few seconds pass without him answering the other questions, the voice hums. "Right. Simon. Nice to meet you. Do you want some help? Maybe?"
"Some help?"
"You're kinda just…floating over there. No fuel or energy that we can see," the voice explains. Another string of notes and it adds, "Plus the big eel thing biting your ship? Or is that a stylistic choice?"
The question is so ridiculous that Simon almost laughs. He feels delusional, light-headed, like he really has lost his mind. And then the anger surges again. "No, it's not a fucking style choice," he spits out. "And what can you even do, huh? You're stuck in this fucking ocean, too."
"Sorry, come again? Did you say ocean?"
"The fuck else would I have said?"
"I, uh, look, this might be easier to figure out in person. If you want."
"Oh, it's that fucking simple, huh? Just stroll on in, man. Not like I'm fucking welded in here."
"You're welded—" the voice cuts off as a few more notes of music play urgently. "No, right, of course. We can cut you out. If you want."
"Cut me out?" Simon asks. He really must be hallucinating after all. "You know what? Sure. I'd love to see you try."
"Yeah, okay. Just give us an hour or two to figure this out, I guess."
That sounds like a sign-off. That sounds like the voice is going to leave. That sounds like Simon is going to be alone again.
"Wait," he says before he can think better of it, "don't leave. Can't you just…keep talking or something?" A few seconds pass and the radio doesn't even crackle. Simon closes his eyes, feels a lump in his throat, and drops his forehead on the radio speaker. All the edge from earlier is gone, leaving an aching fear in its place. "Please. I don't…I don't want to be alone again."
If this is a hallucination, then it doesn't matter if he begs. It doesn't matter if this isn't a hallucination, either, actually. Any sense of pride is out the door if it means getting out of this metal coffin. He'll crawl like a dog if he must. He'll bark like one, too.
Finally, the radio crackles again. Relief floods through Simon as the voice from before says, "Sorry. I was setting up the computer to play music. I'll still be nearby if you need anything, though."
Music starts to play, light and bouncy like the notes are floating. Simon exhales shakily and closes his eyes, finally deciding this must be real.
All his hallucinations up to this point have been painful, gut-wrenching, guilt-ridden. None have been this gentle. He doesn't deserve gentle, and his brain would never provide it. The monster probably doesn't know what "gentle" is, so that thing's ruled out, too. Nothing in death would be gentle, either. That isn't something he's earned, not something he deserves after all he's done.
So, this must be real. It doesn't make any sense, of course, but the other options are simply too impossible for this to be anything else.
What did the voice say its name was?
Grace?
Yeah, Grace. How fitting.
Simon takes a deep, slow breath, focuses on the music, and waits for his saving Grace.