Chapter Text
It starts with a dream. It always does these days.
But it’s too vivid to be just a dream. I look around—there’s no way my consciousness could ever build such a fantastical and detailed world. I’m inside a cramped, very red container. My brain immediately conjures the word “submarine,” but it doesn’t look like any sea vessel that I’ve ever seen.
For one, the walls are coated in a viscous layer of blood. The scent of iron is so pungent that it’s impossible to mistake it for anything else. Secondly, there’s a singular navigation console; usually seafaring ships and submarines are stacked with monitors to traverse through underwater terrain. And third: there is another person present that I have never seen before.
He’s sitting in front of the console in a small leather chair. His hair is pulled back in a partial ponytail—the rest of the strands brush the top of his broad shoulders. The tattered clothing he’s wearing seem too big for his sturdy frame. There are white bandages wrapped around his forearms, the undersides of which are stained with an ugly yellowish-red fluid.
I call out. My mouth moves but it doesn’t produce any sound. Slowly, I approach the stranger. He’s even more handsome up close. He has startling dark eyes and a well-defined jawline. His lips are set in a tight frown. There are bruises above his cheekbones—a clear sign of bone deep exhaustion.
Even so, he’s beautiful. But why is he in such a horrible place?
I inspect my surroundings. The walls are made of scrap metal that are welded together to form a tube. There is no discernable entrance or exit. The only porthole is closed with a shutter. There is a horizonal screen near the back and a computer in the corner of the room, but both monitors are blank. A meter labeled “O2” is embedded next to the console: four squares designate how much oxygen is currently in the vessel. Only two lights are currently green.
Dread curls in my stomach as the horror of the situation settles in my mind like a stone dropped into a still lake. This man is in a submarine with a very limited air supply. If he’s not careful, he could run out of oxygen and suffocate.
I try to shout again. The stranger flinches as if he can hear me and swivels around. His eyes do not light up with recognition. Instead, he only seems annoyed. He shakes his head and turns his attention back to the console. He obviously didn’t see me.
Suddenly, a howl splits the air. It sounds so inhuman and wrong that my body instantly recoils from the noise. I place my palms over my ears and crouch down closer to the floor. I glance at the man—his expression has morphed into pure terror.
He curses under his breath and leaps from the seat to run to the back of the submarine. A rectangular button outlined in green light is embedded into the far wall. I hadn’t even noticed it. He depresses the switch and watches the dark screen next to it intently.
The monitor flashes, and the monochrome image that appears depicts something so gut-wrenchingly horrid that it makes me sick. The sight of the thing launches my brain into fight-or-flight mode. Fresh panic sends a rush of adrenaline throughout my body, which instantly awakens me from my nightmare.
--
When I open my eyes, I lurch to the side and throw up on the floor. A cold sheen of sweat coats my skin.
“Grace, okay? Question!”
The lights in the room flicker on as Rocky scurries back-and-forth in his xenonite suit. He had been resting beside me in our little makeshift bed before I startled him. I feel bad for scaring him. I want to comfort him, but I’m still struggling to speak through a haze of lingering fear. I look at my hands, expecting them to be covered in blood, but they’re clean.
What was that? Who was that?
That certainly wasn’t like any dream I’ve ever experienced.
I rest my hands in my lap and pause to take in my surroundings. We crashed in the living room watching movies together last night. Rocky and I forwent the couch to lay on the floor in a nest of throw blankets and pillows we had previously gathered.
I inspect the vomit nearby. Thankfully, it’s mostly stomach acid, and it didn’t touch the bed covers. It should be easy to clean.
“Grace?”
“I’m all right, Rocky,” I manage. I lick my lips; I’m incredibly thirsty.
Rocky shuffles his legs nervously. “Grace calling out in sleep again. Fourth time this happen in one hundred and twelve-point-two hours.”
Fourth time?
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Is okay. Grace want to talk? Question.”
I’m not sure how to describe what I saw, but I know I can’t keep it from him forever. It makes me feel guilty when I hold anything back from my best friend.
“I keep seeing a man—I don’t know who he is. We’re in a submarine somewhere, and there’s blood all over the walls.”
Rocky taps his leg gently against my thigh. “Did not understand word before ‘somewhere.’”
“Oh, submarine? It’s uh, an underwater vehicle on earth. Usually used for traversing the ocean.”
Rocky hums a short, gentle note—the Eridian equivalent for our newfound word.
He tilts his carapace forward to signal me to continue.
“And I can’t speak. It’s like I’m an observer.” I pause, remembering the ungodly howl that had pierced the hull. “Then there’s this…shouting. Like an animal. Or maybe a whale? It doesn’t sound like anything I’ve ever heard.”
“Then what happened? Question.”
I shudder and exhale heavily. “Then I wake up.”
Rocky hums thoughtfully. “You never see this man, even on earth?”
I shake my head.
“Rocky no like this dream.”
Despite everything, I smile at him. He still has a hard time grasping the concept of dreams, so it’s not surprising to hear him express his dislike toward them.
“It was only a dream, Rocky. It doesn’t mean anything.”
I rest my hand on his carapace, and he nuzzles into my palm. I resolve to try and forget about the dream, but as the morning progresses, the sense of unease that pervades my mind never completely fades.
--
Class that day is interesting, to say the least. While speaking on the topic of black holes, one of my students asks something that completely derails my carefully laid out lesson plan.
“Are wormholes real? Question.”
It comes from one of my younger students, an aqua colored Eridian with thin, white striations throughout her body. I’ve taken to calling her Amara. The rest of the class collectively hum in acknowledgement. However, another student named Tony—an onyx Eridian with a large carapace and several spindly appendages—taps his leg twice.
“What is new word? Question.”
I bite my lip. “Ah, well—”
“Wormholes.” Amara repeats patiently.
The vents on Tony’s carapace shuffle like playing cards, creating a rhythmic—albeit very curious—tune. They turn their attention to me expectantly. The entire class waits with bated breath.
“Wormholes are purely theoretical. There is no direct empirical evidence that a wormhole exists in our universe,” I say. “They are mathematical curiosities described by General Relativity, which we have discussed in a previous class.”
I consider delving into the nitty gritty of the matter: Eistein-Rosen bridges, negative matter, white holes—but one glimpse at my watch tells me that we do not have the time. Although the Eridians are quick learners, it would take more than one class to go through all the foreign words and concepts that I haven’t taught them yet.
“Wormholes and black holes are the same? Question.” Tony asks.
I take a deep breath. “No. Black holes are observable and somewhat predictable phenomena. Wormholes are imaginary tunnels that connect two points in spacetime. One is scientific while the latter is theory.”
Amara hums in disappointment. “But possible that wormholes can exist? Question.”
I start to shake my head. Then, looking out at the Eridians, I consider all the things I never thought would come to fruition in my lifetime. I never thought interstellar travel would be possible, nor did I think that I would be gifted the opportunity to study alien lifeforms. I never thought I would visit a faraway star system or stand on another planet besides earth. I never thought that my best and only friend would be an alien, or that I would work with said alien to save our world.
There are so many things that I never knew before we discovered astrophage.
Instead of shaking my head, I swallow my pride and manage a shaky smile.
“Anything is possible,” I admit.
--
That evening, I dream about him again.
Except this time, I’m wide awake.
It happens when I’m doing the most mundane thing possible: taking a shower. My face is tilted up to the spout. The warm spray runs over my back and pours down into the drain. Sound is diluted completely by the thunder of water falling against the tub. If I close my eyes, I can almost pretend I’m caught in a rainstorm.
Strangely, I feel at peace here.
Until I hear the screaming.
“Fuck that and fuck you! You wanna eat me? Come and try!”
It cuts through the noise in an instant. I open my eyes and balk.
I’m in the submarine again. But everything is much, much worse than it was in my previous dream. The walls and floor are completely coated in dark, red tendrils that pulse with strange black fluid. Blood gushes from several pink, fleshy openings in the hull that weren’t there before.
Something moves in the muck below the grate that is embedded in the floor. Underneath, a small crawlspace begins to overflow. The liquid surges into the main compartment and rises to cover my bare feet. I step back to avoid the oncoming flood and bump into the chair. Looking at the console, I notice the digits continuously ticking up and down on two narrow screens, as well as the metal binder holding the accelerator in place.
I raise my hand to eye level and rub my fingers together. The blood is sticky, wet, and smells strongly of iron. Everything feels very solid and real.
Suddenly, something humanoid emerges from the crawlspace. I gape as a man slowly rises from the depths, using both hands to pull himself up and out of the opening. He puts down a large, heavy object and sputters as he coughs up copious amounts of blood.
I watch him slowly climb to his feet. He’s covered in blood. He turns to address the console, but his eyes immediately lock onto me instead. He stares at me in shock.
“What the fuck?” he hisses.
Apparently, he can see me now.
I’m so baffled and scared that I can’t even speak. Surprisingly, my foremost concern isn’t whether I am in immediate danger or not—rather, it’s wondering if I am standing unclothed in front of this stranger. I was in the shower, after all. But one glance down at my body assures me that I’m (somehow) in my orange flight suit. The top is down with the arm sleeves wrapped snugly around my waist, and I’m wearing my favorite cat shirt.
Dream or not, I’m grateful that I have clothes on.
But there are a thousand questions running through my mind.
How did I get here? How are you here? Where is here? Why am I wearing clothes!?
“Who are you?” is the one that wisely comes out of my mouth instead.
The man flinches as if I’ve physically assaulted him. Then, he tilts his head and frowns. His face looks different now—there are tumor-like growths bulging from his left cheek and behind his ear. The only reason I can tell it’s the same man at all is because his eyes are still the same deep, dark brown.
“You’re…not real,” he murmurs. Then, with more conviction: “You’re not real.”
He grabs the strange box and reaches for a life vest floating nearby. He puts the vest over the box, then frantically searches the floor. When he finds what he is looking for, he wraps it around both objects and clips the ends together so that the life vest is securely attached to the box.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I don’t have time for this. Go away!” he shouts.
I shrink back, but I have nowhere to go.
“I don’t know what—”
That same ear-piercing, blood-curdling howl cuts through the air.
SIMON.
The man—Simon, I’m assuming—goes rigid for a moment before reaching down to grab the box. He cradles it to his chest before turning to regard me. He looks more determined than ever now.
“Get the fuck away from me,” he growls.
Something large suddenly smacks against the side of the submarine, rocking Simon and I to the side and bringing the vessel to a halt. I reach my hand out to stop myself from falling headfirst into a metal pipe.
I glance down—the liquid is up to our knees now. It’s only a matter of time. Between the smell of gore and the blood threatening to drown us, I feel like I can barely breathe. My hands begin to tremble, and my forehead breaks out in a cold sweat.
Simon screams in pain. I jerk my head up and gasp in shock.
He’s suspended in the air between the pipes. Black, veiny tendrils have grown over his skin and glued his palms directly to the metal.
I slosh forward through the blood to help him—danger be damned. Simon is too preoccupied detaching his right arm from the other pipe to take note of my approach. I inspect the left hand. This close, I can tell that the limb is entirely necrotized. There are spots of hardened scales and shallow pits on his skin. It looks like the result of radiation poisoning, but it might be something else entirely.
Gingerly, I brush my fingers over his forearm. He could tear the skin completely from the socket if the damage goes all the way down to his bone marrow.
Suddenly, he yelps. His body slumps to the side as the opposite arm is finally yanked free from the wall. However, I’m too busy assessing the material of the tendrils attaching his hand to the other pipe to notice that his attention has turned to me.
“Wha—What are you doing?” he asks.
My breath catches in my throat. Simon is staring at me with his mouth slightly parted. His eyes are glassy from exhaustion. He tracks my fingers as they ghost over his skin.
“You’re…not real,” he breathes.
His tone suggests that he’s not quite certain anymore. The naked confusion on his face makes my heart stir, but there’s no time to dissect the strange feelings building in my chest.
“I'm real,” I say.
I search my pockets for something to remove the tendrils that are holding his hand down, but they're empty. Apparently, I can conjure clothes in my dream, but not a pocketknife or something useful.
“Do you have anything sharp enough to cut these?”
Instead of answering, Simon starts pulling on his arm again. “Fuck it. No time,” he grunts.
“No, no, no. Please—don’t. You’re going to hurt yourself.”
Simon growls in frustration. “It doesn’t fucking matter.”
“Hey,” I gently cup his cheek. His stubble tickles my skin. He flinches, but I hold his gaze to mine until he stops squirming. “It matters to me.”
He takes a moment to process that statement. He licks his lips. “There’s a pair of bandage scissors in here somewhere. I—I don’t know where…maybe near the back?”
I nod and lurch forward to start scouring the ship. The blood is nearly up to my waist now. I have to submerge my entire arm to reach for the bottom.
YOU HAVE NOWHERE TO RUN. WE CAN HEAR YOU. WE WILL FIND YOU.
“Fuck me,” Simon mutters. “Hurry up!”
My fingertips skim the metal floor. There’s something long, wet, and plasticky—tape, perhaps? I find an empty box and a bottle—then, finally, the bandage scissors.
“I got them!”
I rush back to Simon and use the sharp edge of the scissors to start sawing through the binds. My hand trembles so badly that the blade slips and takes a chunk of skin out of his pointer finger.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
Simon shakes his head. “I…didn’t even feel it.”
Well, that’s worrisome. Either the damage isn’t as bad as it looks, or he’s completely numb to pain at this point. Once his hand is free, I take a moment to properly look him over. His clothes are black and rotted; the blood coats his body like a second layer of skin, making it impossible to discern if he’s wounded.
THIS IS THE ONLY WAY! YOU KNOW IT, SIMON.
He glances at me, then the box. He picks it up and shoves it against my chest. I have no choice but to wrap my arms around it to keep it from toppling back to the ground.
“Keep this safe, okay?”
YOU SAW THE HORROR OF IT. WHAT DID IT SEE IN YOU?
I grasp the side of my head, smearing blood in my hair. “That voice—it hurts. What is it?”
Simon’s eyes lock on the console. He pushes past me to turn a switch. The port hole groans as the pressure against the hull increases. More blood spurts through the crack in the glass. At the same time, a beaten, bloody speaker barely clinging to the wall stutters to life.
“Hull breach. Hull breach.”
IT SAW YOU, SIMON. AND IT WILL NEVER LET YOU GO!
Simon turns to me. He looks torn.
“Look, I don’t know where you came from, but you need to go back.”
I hold the box even tighter. “But what about you?”
He shakes his head. “I’m already dead.”
“There has to be a way to—”
“There isn’t,” Simon says. The absolute certainty in his voice makes my throat close up. He comes closer and rests his hand on the top of the box. His eyes are full of regret and pain. “This is important, okay? It’s worth more than me.”
“Simon—”
Suddenly, the submarine is rocked once again. Giant, white protrusions pierce the hull and descend upon us. I yelp and lurch backward to avoid the onslaught. Simon hits the ground and is swept up in a surge of blood. I back myself into a corner to try and stay upright, but my feet slip and send me tumbling to the floor.
WHAT DID YOU DO? YOU CHANGED EVERYTHING!
Simon uses the pipes in the wall to stand. Then, he grabs me and yanks me up by my arm. I barely manage to hold onto the box in the chaos. I cough and gag as blood is expelled from my throat. He leans forward until his face is inches from mine.
“Go!”
He pushes me hard. I fall backwards into the blood with a splash. The liquid instantly obscures my vision, sending me spiraling into darkness.
--
When I reopen my eyes, I’m curled up on the floor of my bathroom. My arms ache from holding something bulky to my chest. I look down at my body; I’m holding onto the box from the dream. I’m also in the same clothes that I was wearing, and they’re soaked through with blood. I lean up and hiss in pain. I reach for my head—it feels tender to the touch. I must have hit it on the ground when Simon shoved me.
But none of this makes any sense at all. It was only a dream, right? I shouldn’t be in bloody clothing with a fresh bruise on my skull. I shouldn’t have a black box with a life vest strapped to it sitting on my bathroom floor.
I look at the shower. The spout is still running. It feels like I was standing underneath it hours ago. How is any of this possible?
“Grace! Grace, friend!”
Rocky’s tone halts my thoughts. He sounds more distressed than ever. He barrels through the house and into the bathroom before I can even get to my feet.
“Grace! Why is Grace on floor? What is this box? Question.”
My head pounds. “I—I don’t—”
Rocky paces back-and-forth in front of me until I manage to stand. I’m so woozy that I reach my hand out to steady myself against the sink. There's blood all over the counter and the floor now. I'm glad that Rocky cannot see it. He already seems pretty worked up. He moves his carapace erratically as he speaks.
“Grace! New human found on Grace beach in metal tube! Human not responding to Rocky!”
My eyes widen. “What?”
Rocky taps his front leg repeatedly. “Grace follow now!”
“Okay, yeah. I’m right behind you, pal.”
--
There is a familiar-looking vessel that has washed up onto the shore of my beach on Erid. It is welded together from scrap metal and covered in thick, red fluid. There are several puncture wounds in the top of the submarine, as well as a cracked port hole on the front. It smells strongly of sea salt and iron.
I stare at it for a long time. Rocky continues speaking, but I can barely hear him over the incessant ringing in my ears. My head hurts worse than ever.
“Rocky can see human inside,” Rocky says urgently.
“I’ll need a torch to get through the hull.”
Rocky hums. “Already have. Grace take torch now.”
He raises his leg, revealing the xenonite torch held in his claw. Deftly, I walk forward and take it. The xenonite feels cold and heavy in my hand. I approach the submarine and suppress the urge to gag at the pungent smell.
“Okay, here goes nothing,” I murmur.
It takes seconds to make a sizeable hole in the side of the hull. The scrap metal cleaves like butter under the heat from the xenonite torch. I turn it off and push my hand against the metal. It falls inward, then floats towards me on a torrent of blood. The ship drains slowly, but there’s not as much blood as I expected. It must not have been completely full.
I step inside. It’s dark besides the simulated sunlight filtering in through the manmade door and the port hole. The moment I lay my eyes on him, I sob. Simon is there: sitting in the chair, his top half slumped over the console. I’m barely conscious of the tears running down my cheeks. How many years has it been since I touched another human being?
I approach him slowly, but he seems to be completely knocked out. Dread curls in my stomach as a worse alternative crops up in my mind. Quickly, I press two fingers to the underside of his jaw and wait with bated breath.
There’s a heartbeat—faint, but present.
Finally, I allow the impossible to sink in: Simon isn’t just a part of my dreams. He is real.