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“Grace, we will lose a quarter of the world’s population in the next thirty years.”
The words hang heavy in Stratt’s office, weighing on his shoulders like the 2 million kilograms of astrophage currently being loaded onto the Hail Mary. His leg shook incessantly as Stratt’s gaze continued to lock in laser focus on him, probably taking a mental note of the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, the trembling hands he had folded in his lap. All perfect data points that would prove the hypothesis that he had already reached a conclusion on.
He can’t do this.
“And that assumes that the nations of the world work together to ration food-” she continued.
Ryland bit back a scoff and lowered his head, just hoping that this would be over soon.
And then the damning prediction that made him feel even worse about his own cowardice. “Which they won’t.”
And he knows they won’t. He’s overheard the social studies teachers down the hall. How they seem to tense up a little more with each new headline their students asked about in class. How he’d walk by on his lunch break to see them hunched over, heads on their desk, the sickly blue light of their computer monitors as the only light in their darkened classroom; watching their faces contort as they tried to wrap their own heads around it before they could even start to think of how to explain it to a group of rowdy middle schoolers who picked up on more than other adults gave them credit for.
He forced himself to look up at Stratt, only for her steely gaze to narrow. “So I’ve doubled the estimate. And if you-” she stands up, and Ryland feels like David staring up at Goliath- “would truly care about the children, or anyone else for that matter-” Ryland’s throat runs dry. His leg begins to shake even more as the realization washes over him, his phone weighing heavily in his pocket.
Kazakhstan’s time was only UTC + 5:00. Sydney was UTC + 10:00. Over the last three hours, there must have been once where the times aligned, and he could’ve gotten an answer. All he needed was five minutes sat on the roof between the satellite dishes. Five minutes of divulging government secrets to someone who wouldn’t understand anything except the panic in Ryland’s voice. Someone who, if he and Ryland swapped positions, would actually have the balls to send himself on a suicide mission twelve light-years away for a shot at saving the sun from being eaten and half the world’s population from dying because of one selfish coward.
He’s pulled out of his thoughts as the pens on the desk rattle from what he assumed was the impact of Stratt slamming her hand down on the desk to get his attention. She stared at him as he finally willed himself to make eye contact with her, her mouth pressed into a thin, unwavering line. “-You’d get on that ship,” she finishes, voice eerily soft like she wants him to think she regrets doing this, but her firm tone reminding him that this isn’t a request.
Ryland cleared his throat, subtly rocking back and forth in a futile self-soothing attempt. “I understand the stakes, I do,” he choked out, blinking back the pressure building behind his eyes. His hand brushed over his phone in his pocket as he squeezed his eyes shut, willing it to ring just once. For the name Colt Seavers to flash across the screen. Just once. Please.
He swallowed, hard. “But I don’t have it in me,” he says softly, trying to appeal to the pathos of the situation. As if Stratt could ever tear herself away from logic, especially at a time like this. Ryland wiped at his eyes with a sniffle, fumbling with his navy beanie and trying to slide it back on top of his mop of dirty blond hair. “My mind is made up.” He sighed, clearing his throat again. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice still shaking, “but you-” the phone felt heavy in his pocket again and he willed it to ring again. Just once. Just thirty seconds of hellos and then the voice of a too-reckless-for-his-own-good stuntman declaring that he just needs to man up and do this one thing that will save billions of people- “you just can’t talk me into it,” he announced, fumbling to put his glasses back on as Stratt stared at him from across her desk. Her usually cold gaze suddenly turned eerily robotic in a way that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
She blinked once. Twice. The entire room falling silent around them, save for Ryland’s barely controlled breathing. “It’s alright,” she said, but her voice was monotone. Robotic. Holding back the wave of relief that Ryland was prepared to feel wash over him. “I’m not trying to talk you into anything.” She took a breath that sent shivers down his spine. “I am trying-” she inhaled sharply and Ryland’s eyes widened in fear- “to make you understand what I am about to do next. Please, stay calm.”
Ryland’s body turned the exact opposite, every muscle group going rigid as she gestured towards the door. “Come in,” she said calmly. His gaze snapped to the door as a man with a white coat entered, orange duffle bag in hand. The man closed the door behind him, and Ryland raised an eyebrow.
“What is this?” He asked, his panic rising as the man set his bag down on Stratt’s desk. His gaze snapped between the two of them, until Stratt cleared her throat.
“Mission plan will say that we induced your coma early to maximize your safety,” she explained matter-of-factly. “You will be remembered as a hero.”
Ryland blinked, jumping out of his chair as the man came closer to him. “Woah, woah, woah,” he shouted, holding his hands up. “I just said- I- I can’t do this. You said I-”
“I said no such thing,” Stratt interrupted. “You are selected because you both possess the technical and scientific knowledge to carry out the mission. You-” she exhaled sharply- “will not be missed. This may seem-”
“I will be missed!” Ryland protested desperately, watching as security guards began to gather outside the door. “I have people who will miss me! My students, for one-”
“The students that you abandoned with a long-term substitute so you could take this position?” Stratt challenged as black-suited security guards poured into the room, backing the molecular biologist into a corner.
Ryland slowly stepped backwards, his heart beating erratically against his ribs. “I have a brother!” He shouted. “My twin brother! My twin brother, Colt Seavers. He- He’s a stuntman, does the Tom Ryder movies-” he desperately searched the guard’s faces for any twitch of recognition- “he’s in Australia. I can- I” he sputtered desperately as the guards pinned him up to the table. “He will miss me! He will mourn me!” He shouted.
Stratt held her hand up and the movement stopped. Ryland, still held in place, stared at her with an open mouth. “I-”
“You have no one left to mourn you.”
“Yes! Yes, I do! I have a lot of people who will mourn me! My brother-”
“Dr. Grace,” she interrupted. “Perhaps you don’t understand. You do not have a twin brother.”
Ryland laughed deliriously. “Yes, I do. His name is Colt Seavers and he’s-”
“Colt Seavers is dead.”
He stilled completely, the world around him seemingly turning dull as a ringing in his ears grew louder and louder. Overtaking the hum of the ventilation, the shuffling of the security, and even Stratt’s words sounded like she was speaking underwater. Ryland looked away, shaking his head, not even trying to blink back the tears that were streaming down his face. Colt isn’t dead. Colt cannot be dead. Colt survived free-falling twelve stories onto his spine. He can’t be-
As though he was being pulled from the water, Stratt’s voice came back into focus. He looked back at her, vision blurred from his glasses being knocked off somewhere and the tears swimming in his eyes. “Roughly forty-five minutes ago, an explosion occured near the opera house in Sydney Harbor,” Stratt read out from her laptop, “believed to be caused by a boat colliding with numerous oil tankers. Eye witness statements claim a blond man was present at the scene of the crash, with the only thing recovered being-” she wrinkled her nose and Ryland turned his head so he was face down in the table holding his breath.
Not the jacket.
“A ‘Miami Vice Stunt Team’ jacket-” Ryland’s blood ran cold. Just a few months ago, he’d taken that same jacket, with its faded patches and worn fabric, out of the dryer, handing it to Colt, who immediately put it back on. Colt’s proudest souvenir from his first stunt gig.
“The jacket? I’ll take it off when I’m dead.”
He shook himself out of the memory. That didn’t mean anything it was just- it was something people said, like ‘over my dead body’ or- or. Ryland gasped for air, hot tears rolling down his cheeks as he turned his head to look back at Stratt. “I believe that particular jacket happens to be a staple of Mr. Seaver’s wardrobe,” she concluded.
He tried to push his head up, breathing heavily as more sobs threatened to tear themselves free from his throat. “How do you know that?”
She ignored him, lowering her hand and allowing the security guards to continue. “This may seem like me betraying you, but it is actually me believing in you.”
Ryland shook his head, breathing heavily as he struggled away from the needle. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die, Colt-
What would Colt do?
He took a deep breath, summoning his strength, and kicked backwards, striking the guard who was holding him in the knee, sending him stumbling backwards and giving Ryland just enough leeway to wrench his arms from the man’s grasp. He grinned in spite of himself once he got himself free, making a mental note to say something to-
Ryland took off sprinting as a scream ripped itself from his throat, the sounds of his white converse squeaking against the floor and the clicks of the security’s dress shoes chasing him down. He shut his eyes, trusting that no one was lunging for his feet or just lying there like…like a dog.
“Why does the dog speak French?”
Colt shrugged. “Why does Tom Ryder,” he said sarcastically, dramatically waving his hand around in a way that Ryland couldn’t tell if he was mocking the actor or directly copying him, “say he does his own stunts? He’s a self-important asshole who thinks he can be dicks to the crew and we’ll all just bow down because-” Colt inhaled, his voice suddenly becoming high-pitched- “he’s Tom Ryder and we should all be grateful to work with such a star like him.”
Ryland blinked as Colt crossed his arms, leaning against the wall of his trailer, muttering something unintelligible but probably extremely profanity-laden under his breath. “Okay, but why does the dog speak French?” He asked as he unfortunately chose a terrible time to trip over something, landing face-first on the trailer floor with a resounding thud that caused Colt to wince.
He pushed off the wall and reached a hand down, pulling his twin back to his feet.
“There’s another dog.”
Colt snorted. “Great observation, Dr. Grace,” he teased, ruffling Ryland’s blond locks. “Congrats by the way.”
Ryland raised an eyebrow, “You were at my graduation. I found you immediately because-” he poked the red stripe on the sleeve of Colt’s jacket- “of this. Do you need other clothes?”
His twin brother scoffed, lazily resting his arm around his shoulder, “Ry, you gotta realize that science pun t-shirts are not the peak of fashion.”
Ryland rolled his eyes, elbowing Colt hard in the side and freeing himself from the arm hold as he made sure not to trip over any more dogs. “My students love my shirts,” he announced, “I will have you know I even get compliments from teachers.”
“Sure.”
“Jody loves my potential shirt.”
Colt rolled his eyes, “She was probably giving you the compliment because she thought it was a self-deprecating joke, and she wanted to lift your spirits. She’s nice like that.” He explained, smiling to himself with a dreamy look in his eyes that made Ryland feel like he was watching one of his students stare at their crush from across the classroom instead of at the board, taking notes.
“And she likes the jacket?”
“The jacket?” Colt scoffed and flipped up the collar. “I’ll take it off when I’m dead. Besides, for your information, Jody loves it. Great for outdoor sets.”
Ryland pushed the feel of the worn leather out of his mind, along with the signature thumbs up usually attached to the end of one of the sleeves. A stunt guy tradition, apparently, meant to signal that they were…okay.
Colt has to be okay. He can’t- He- He can jump a boat through fire with his arms tied behind his back, and that’s what took him out. It doesn’t make sense, I mean, Colt-
More and more footsteps followed behind, echoing through the halls as Ryland sprinted, his legs and lungs burning with the effort as he slipped between personnel who gaped at him and then shuffled out of the way as the security guards charged after them.
The call came in the middle of a heated game of The Beanbag is Lava. He’d almost ignored it, but something in his gut told him it was important, that he needed to answer right now or he’d regret it for the rest of his life. Luckily, his students were absorbed in the game, shouting and laughing and quizzing each other on all the different facts they’d learned today. Ryland sat behind his desk, covered one ear with his hand, and held the phone up to the other.
“Hello, this is St. Mary’s Grace Hospital,” the cheery tone announced as Ryland felt his blood turn cold, “have I reached a Dr. Ryland Grace?”
He tried to respond but no words came out, just him opening and closing his mouth like a fish as the noise from his students started to rise above everything else. He cleared his throat and responded with a hoarse, “Yes, this is him.”
“Well, Dr. Grace, we have you listed as the emergency contact of-” Ryland crossed his fingers, trying to avoid the fact that only one person in the world would list him as an emergency contact- “Mr. Colt Seavers.”
His throat ran dry as the joyous laughter of his students turned to a dull ringing in the back of his mind. “I-” he tried, voice cracking- “What happened? Is he-”
“He is unconscious and currently in the ICU.” Ryland wanted to throw up, closing his fist and trying to ground himself with the sensation of his nails digging into his palms, leaving behind little angry red crescent moons. “We would suggest you arrive quickly. As his next of kin, his doctors will be looking at you to make decisions.”
“Decisions like what?” Ryland choked out, the room falling silent as his students focused on him, the beanbag landing flat on the ground with an unsatisfying whomp.
“He’ll be going into emergency surgery due to extensive damage to his spinal cord-” Ryland nearly choked on his own air- “you will need to make decisions on when to withdraw care.”
He stood up, body trembling. “And that means that?”
“Should he go into cardiac arrest during surgery, you will decide how long we will attempt to resuscitate him.”
“But I- you’re-” he sputtered, anxiously running his hand through his hair as his students went rigid, staring at him with a mix of confusion and pity that made his stomach churn. “You’re the doctors, like the real ones with MDs, not PhDs. You’re the ones who need to save him and I-”
“Dr. Grace,” the woman on the other end of the line said softly. “We give this option to families because we want to leave it up to them on how many times they’re willing to let their family member fight to stay alive, or if they just want to end the suffering quickly and let the patient rest peacefully.”
Ryland swallowed back the bile threatening to erupt from his body. “But he-” he’s voice broke as a choked sob ripped itself from his throat. “Is he suffering?” He whispered, dreading the answer as his heart dropped into the pit of his stomach.
“He’s in critical condition in the ICU.” A pause. “I suggest you get here quickly.”
He looked at his students. “Just,” he pleaded. “Just stay here, I’ll have someone come in and I-” his voice broke, and he wiped at his eyes to stave off the pressure building behind them. “I have to go.”
He tucked his phone into his pocket and took off sprinting down the hall. His mind racing in a haze as his feet rhythmically pounded against the ground, occasionally squeaking with the noise of his converse against the linoleum.
Ryland barely remembered how he got there, whether he took a bus, his bike, or sprinted through the streets of San Francisco until he stumbled through the door of the hospital, heaving with effort as the adrenaline began to crash. He leaned forward, hands on his knees, gulping air down. “I-” he panted- “I’m here to see-”
“Ryland?”
He took another deep breath as he stood back upright, turning to face the source of the voice. Jody was standing at the edge of a row of chairs, her eyes bloodshot and red, and her arms tightly wrapped around Colt’s jacket. He willed himself to take a few steps toward her, only to be met in the middle by her throwing an arm over his shoulders. Ryland hugged her back, feeling his shirt dampen where her face was pressed into his shoulder.
“What-” he tried to say, his voice failing almost immediately as they pulled apart. “What happened?”
Jody squeezed the jacket to her chest, biting back a sob. “He- there was an accident. We were doing this stunt where he’d be lowered and just-” she sniffled, wiping her hand over her eyes- “I don’t know what happened. One minute he was hooked in, thumbs up, ready to go, and the next he was falling.”
The pit in Ryland’s stomach opened wider as every memory of Colt’s dangerous stunts flooded his body, bringing rushes of anxiety in their wake. “The equipment failed?” He pressed, his hands fidgeting incessantly. Jody nodded weakly, and Ryland inhaled, his chest tightening. “How far did he fall?”
Jody gulped and held the jacket tighter. “He-” she choked on a sob. “He fell twelve stories, Ryland. I-” she buried her face in the jacket for a moment before looking back up at him, watching his mind quickly convert the number into something more concrete. “The paramedics said it’s a miracle he’s still alive.”
He opened his mouth but quickly closed it as a doctor approached, clipboard in hand, white coat pristine. Perfectly clinical, perfectly scientific, everything Ryland wished he could be other than a blubbering mess.
“Dr. Grace?” She asked, to which Ryland nodded, and then turned to Jody, “Ms. Moreno?” She also nodded.
“Is Colt-” Jody tried to ask before the doctor held up her hand to silence her.
She turned to Ryland, gaze hard and serious, “Dr. Grace, your brother has been brought in for emergency surgery on his spinal cord. We need you, as his next of kin, to decide how many times we’ll need to resuscitate him.”
He shook his head, the weight on his shoulders starting to manifest into a physical impact as he hunched his shoulders. “There isn’t any need. Colt’s a fighter, he’ll pull through without-”
“He’s flatlined twice.”
The room fell silent, save for Jody’s quiet, “Ohmygod,” stifled by her hand. Ryland wasn’t even sure he was still breathing.
“What?”
“Colt Seavers has needed to be resuscitated twice so far. With the damage to his spine, ribs, not to mention the organ and nerve damage, there is a very high chance that if he does survive, he could have severe health complications for the rest of his life, or be paralyzed entirely, or any other number of complications. So, Dr. Grace, we need to know how many more times we will have to resuscitate him before you decide to let him go.”
“He’s not-” Ryland choked. “I can’t- He’s not dying here. Please. I don’t care what you have to do, just, please.”
He slammed into the door, finally escaping into the outdoors. He set his sights on the barbed fence ahead of him. On freedom. On any chance of actually living a normal life and not being sent to his death on a suicide mission that he is not at all equipped for. He finally ran out onto the grass, the crisp highland air flooding his lungs as he continued running.
All he needed was to hop the fence that was growing taller and taller as he ran closer and closer. Just hop the fence, hitchhike to a city, find an airport, get on the next flight to Australia, and hope to god that the news is wrong. That he can hop off the plane, get to Sydney, barge onto the MetalStorm set, and find Colt standing right next to Jody’s chair where he belongs.
He’s almost there. He’s almost to the fence. He’s almost over the fence. He’s almost to the city. He’s almost to the airport. He’s almost on the plane. He’s almost to Australia. He’s almost to the set. He’s almost to his brother. He’s almost beating Colt as they race across the field.
But Ryland never could beat his twin brother in a race.
The world moved in slow motion as one of the guards slammed into him, tackling him to the ground. And every emotion comes bursting out of him. “I don’t wanna die!” He sobbed, struggling as more and more guards piled on top of him. “Please, please, I can’t do it! I don’t want to die!”
He struggled even harder, trying to wiggle out of the headlock he was being put in as the man in the white coat slowly walked forward, syringe in hand. Ryland screamed again between sobs and pleas, still scrambling to free one or any of his limbs from the crushing weight of both the guards and the knowledge that he was going to die here. He was going to die in space all alone, and no one on earth is left alive to mourn him.
Ryland finally wrenched his arm free, stretching out towards the fence and reaching towards the almost. His sob was broken as he screamed out, “COLT!”
He wanted so badly for his scream to act as some call across the universe. That by some miracle Colt could break out of the confines of reality and suddenly appear right outside the compound. That he’d jump the fence and pull Ryland from the dog pile of security guards and drag them both back over the fence, to the airport, back to California. Back to a normal life where both of them are still alive and Ryland’s back in his classroom and Colt’s back on set prepping for his latest stunt. But miracles like that wouldn’t ever happen.
“Please,” he howled as one of the guards dragged his arm back underneath them. “Please, I can’t do it! Don’t do it! Please, please, don’t do it!” He looked over, his cheek pressed to the ground, and saw Carl, standing over him. “Please, don’t let me die,” he pleaded.
Carl’s mouth was in a thin line. “You know who you are,” he announced as Ryland felt the pinch of the needle sinking into his skin. He buried his nose in the dirt, letting his tears fall into the ground as his eyes began to close. He felt the wave of exhaustion hit with the sedative, his mind starting to slow as his muscles went limp, his hand that had been clawing at the ground, savoring his last feel of the earth for the rest of his short life.
See you soon, Colt.