Chapter Text
There were a lot of possibilities for the end that Simon thought could happen. At one point in his life, he'd thought he'd have a good life on Eden with hardships and a family that he'd make for himself. That hadn't been anything but a child's dream though, and not long after it had been broken, Simon had been sure he'd die locked in his cell. Then the submarine. He'd begged for his life, but theatrics aside Simon had known in the back of his mind that that would be it for him.
As things boiled around him and his skin ached with more radiation, he known death was near. His arm was a loss, but at the point that it happened he'd barely even stopped to think about it. There had been no time to really think about things or grieve what was happening to him. It was roll with the punches and survive for whatever meager moment he had left. Simon just wanted to live.
Every breath had been a challenge. The air was too hot around him, and he was severely dehydrated. Blood came in from the walls, and Simon was pretty sure that it meant the ship had been breached. Pierced by the mouth of an angry false God, down here in Hell. He was going to die down here. He had known that for a while now. Maybe he'd known that the entire time. Doing what people said had never worked out for him in the past anyways. Why had he thought it would be different this time?
Simon closed his eyes as blood pooled around him above his waist. It was rising fast. This had to be it? Would drowning in this thick liquid hurt a lot? Did it even matter if it hurt; his body already hurt now. At least then it would be over. Did he want it to be over? In his life, Simon had done so many terrible things just to survive, things that ended up being pointless because it led him to here.
He'd wanted to do something good with his life. Instead he had ended up as The Butcher. The murderer, the criminal. People had called him a great many things, and even so close to his end, Simon agreed with them. If he close his eyes, he still thought about those 62 lives that he had taken. There were so few left now, that that number was huge. No. It always would've been devastating for him. 62. His actions had led to the death of at least 62 people.
Maybe he'd not even deserve the small spark of hope of freedom. That's what he found at the beginning of this. For at least a few moments. He knows now that there had never been any hope. That any sparks and determinations he had felt were stupid. The blood rises to his neck and he closes his eyes. He can feel it steadily rising on his skin now, but somehow it feels better to not watch. This is it for him.
He's scared. Of all the things that have happened to him in his life, Simon can barely remember feeling scared. It was always do this to get food, or go here and do what you're told so you don't die. Huddle for warmth and scrounge anything you can. That's what life had been like for him. Never clean and never without hardship, but it had been his life. He wished he'd treasured it more.
Perhaps it's the silence that he doesn't like. Or maybe it's the fact that he doesn't really know how to swim. Why would he? That's not exactly a useful past time to have had, and with resources stressed so thin for every generation, water was becoming more of a sacred thing. Simon wasn't even sure that humans would be around for another hundred years at this rate. Everyone knew that. It's why every generation had less and less kids born! Who would want to have to pass children on to fight in this shitty universe?
All of a sudden, even through his closed eyelids, he sees this enormous flash of light. No, not a flash. It's steady and getting brighter. The blood comes up to his nose and Simon is too scared to open his eyes. Perhaps this is what it was like to look at the sun? Is he just imagining this in his last final moments? Simon doesn't understand.
The light gets brighter, even though it shouldn't be able to. He's never seen such a bright light source. He's glad he kept his eyes closed because surely he would never see again after such a bright light. Perhaps this is what dying is like? Going into the light? He'd heard that phrase before.
Then the light matters very little, because the blood is still rising and has fully covered over his eyes. Simon counts the seconds because in the end, he wants to know. Because if he focuses on counting, then he doesn't have to think about dying. He doesn't have to think about how he's struggling because there's no more oxygen. He doesn't have to think about being sent deliberately on this suicide mission and being lied to every step of the way about it. He doesn't have to think about the 62. He doesn't have to think about how he's always felt so alone.
God, he wishes he wasn't alone in this moment. He misses his mom. He misses possibly every person who ever talked to him with a kind tone.
His life had mostly been about his sustaining himself. Sure, it had comrades and people referred to as brothers around him, but he wouldn't have called them companions or friends. They hadn't particularly ever liked each other. They wouldn't have done anything for one another. He'd watched people starve when he had a portion of food, and then refused water, even though they had access. The shitty life that they had lived hadn't provided love or friendship. Not for him at least. He'd watch men provide the best they could for families or older siblings even try to look out for younger ones as much as they could.
There was sort of this regret in the back of his mind. He should've picked somebody to take care of. Maybe things would've turned out different. Maybe he wouldn't have ended up a scapegoat because he had nothing to lose. If there was something beyond this, some afterlife or even punishment, Simon promised himself that he would do better. That he would open his heart, and care for even but one being.
His count got to 17. That wasn't even a large number, but he couldn't hold on any longer. He found his mouth opening and filling with the blood. It choked him from the inside and out. The instinct to want to breathe. His body twitches horrifically even though he's not trying to and it hurts. Everything burns.
And then oblivion.
"Eye movement detected. Welcome back, unknown identity, what is 2+2?" A robotic voice spoke to him. It was loud to Simon, but that could have just been because of how hard his head was pounding.
Simon honestly ignored the bot, though it did worry him. He was just very disoriented in the first few moments. Things were cold around him, where he could remember them being boiling hot. It was dry, and he remembered being very wet. He's confused by all these little fact until he remembers how it ended for him.
Was he dead? How was one supposed to know if they had died?
"Unknown identity, please respond for brain function test. What is 2+2?" The robotic voice asked again.
Simon forces his eyes open because he has to know. There are artificial lights around him and it's bright in ways that he's never really seen before. In all of his life all he had ever seen were dim features. It cost too much to do anything more then basic necessity. Only the rich had good lighting in their lives and even then it was only for a finite time during days. The jail cell he'd been held in had one light across the hall that had been on for 12 hours and then off for 12 hours. He'd counted days with it. The dim thing had given enough light to squint at Simon's surroundings around him in his little cage.
A long time ago, he had heard that a few rich individuals had well lit homes. Along with the station abided dim lighting that everybody had, the rich would install some sort of generator and get an extra four hours of a bright light during their cycle. It's why the few rich in society had hobbies like reading. For everybody else, there wasn't much time for anything like that. Dim light was needed for basic necessities and work in the moment you can't see anymore, it became necessary to hunker down until the light came back.
What did this bright room mean? When he was done thinking about the lights, he realized how very clean the room was. Simon had heard the term sterile before, but it hadn't really meant much to him. Things were dirty. All of life was dirty. Water was an important resource that just couldn't be wasted. Sure, if you didn't keep up with hygiene, then things would be a whole lot worse for you usually, as infection or rot could settle in. One of the things that children had to learn before reaching adulthood was usually the balance of how to keep yourself clean(ish) and how little water you should truly be dripping onto a cloth for bathing.
"Unknown identity, please respond for brain function test. What is 2+2?" This time the robotic voice said the same thing, so it probably only had a few programmed words. The arm things was fascinating to see. It was advanced but Simon had seen advanced machines before. He'd just never had one talk to him. Or wave at him to try and get his attention.
A door opens, and Simon turns his head to look over. In steps a man which Simon had never seen the like of before. For one, he's wearing glasses! Now, Simon knew what glasses were. They were supposedly sight aids, Simon had never actually seen anybody wear them. Too expensive. If you couldn't see properly, then you usually didn't make it past childhood. There's only so much that squinting can do for you.
This man wasn't young, so to have to rely on glasses to see his life must have been a difficult one. Maybe they'd managed to be passed down in his family line? Simon had met people before then had old relics like that. His family hadn't managed to pass anything on to him, though. Or if they had originally, they'd long been traded away for something else.
And his hair was practically golden color. The term was blonde. Simon had seen people with blonde hair before obviously, but blonde hair had never looked so clean. Was it all gold like that or was everybody different? It looked pretty. Simon wanted to touch it. The man looked soft in general. Simon wanted to touch the soft thing in front of him.
"Unknown identity, please respond for brain function test. What is 2+2?" The machine asked a third time, but this time the man came close and answered for him.
"4. The answers is 4, please leave him alone." Simon's golden man says. Even his voice is soft.
"Answer accepted. Brain working accordingly, please have a nice day." The machine answered back, seemingly uncaring about who answered the question. That was interesting, Simon didn't think it should work like that.
" Hello stranger, welcome aboard the Hail Mary." The pretty man said with a smile. People didn't just smile for no reason, so he must like Simon too. "My name is Ryland Grace, but you can just call me Grace. I prefer it honestly."
Simon had never heard of anyone being called Grace before. He hadn't even known that was an option. It was beautiful, just like the man. Filled with meaning too. This man's parents must have had big plans for him from the time of his very birth.
"Mmmh, Simon." His own introduction could have come out better, but he still managed. His mouth was very dry, and Simon could still taste blood.
"Simon." Grace repeated softly and Simon's heart skipped a beat. His name had never sounded so good. He'd like Grace to say it over and over again.
"Where 'er we?" Simon asks, because he wants to know. He's decided he isn't dead, because he didn't deserve this soft of an afterlife. And he could never have made up such a man in his imagination. Grace is simply too pure, clean and wonderfully soft to have come from Simon's head.
"Oh, space still. We are heading to a planet called Erid. The trips going to take another 5 months or so. Do you know how you got to my ship? We were alerted you just appeared in the med bay." Grace asks, but Simon can't help but be distracted because Grace runs a hand over Simon's kneecap while speaking. Simon can't help but want the touch on bare skin instead.
Yeah, he can't be dead. There's no possible way his imagination could have come up with something so crazy. Space. Grace. The clean bright ship. All of it.