Chapter Text
He's crammed in a corner, pushed as close to the wall as physically possible, and Simon does not remember getting there.
It's- awkward. His arm- arm, singular- is pinned beneath his weight, bent at an odd angle as if to push himself further away, one leg tucked up to his chest, the other flat against the wall to, again, push him closer to the corner, and his head is hunched down, towards his chest, his neck and bare back- bare body??- flush against the wall. It's. A position.
He has no idea how he got here. Or why he got here. There's a faint, anxious, crawling at the back of his mind, something uneasy and trapped, but more importantly, fuck, does his body hurt.
The ache is everywhere. It's hard to even really pin down where it originates from, because everything seems to be the answer, which is not great. Bad, actually.
What the hell happened?
"Hello!"
Simon screams.
Slams his head backwards, against the wall, and ow fucking Jesus, stars erupt all across his vision, burning bright and white and swallowing all thought for a good two-three beats. Simon curses. Spits them out, trying to reach up for his head and then remember, oh yeah, one fucking arm, and so, instinctually, he tries to switch to his other arm, the one not stuck to the pipes of the SM-13, except he's laying on it, and so he flails dramatically for a bit, cursing all the while, and then the pain dims back out, and actually, he's fine.
Simon lies still. Whatever the fuck had just spoken to him does not get him. Simon closes his eyes very gently.
"… Sorry?"
There's amusement in the voice. It's carefully tucked beneath something that sounds surprisingly close to worry, and also maybe trepidation, but Simon still fucking hears it. Rude bastard.
"You better be," he grouches, and then remembers, hey- where is he. Who is that. The fuck is going on.
He snaps his eyes back open- cranes his head down, kicking awkwardly at the floor to scoot himself around, and there is. A guy.
It looks like a normal guy. Blonde hair. A bit of a scruff. Wearing nice fucking clothes, and a pair of- glasses? On his face, and damn, this guy must be important. Simon hasn't seen glasses in decades.
The guy smiles at him.
"Hi," he says. "Sorry about scaring you. Again."
Simon squints at him.
"Who the fuck are you?" he asks, and then, before the guy can answer that: "and where am I? How'd I get here?"
"Um," says the guy, grin stretching awkwardly at the edges. "Well, we found you. In space."
In what.
"In what?"
The guy cringes. "Yeaaah, I had a feeling that wasn't… intentional…"
"In space??" Simon repeats, pushing himself upright, wincing as his muscles flex and ache, breath leaving him in a huff. He forces himself not to fucking face plant. "How am I not dead?"
"No idea!" the guy chirps, smiling like this is great, actually, and not something that'll plague Simon for weeks. "It's kind of a mystery. By all accounts, you should be!"
Simon stares at him. Leans himself carefully against the wall, pulling his legs out from underneath himself.
"Great," he says, tone dry, and the guy falters. Shifts from one foot to the other. Opens his mouth, as if to say something, and then closes it again.
Fantastic. He's an idiot.
"Where am I?" he repeats, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He doesn't really- know anything. He has no clue what situation he's in, who he's with. Last he was aware, well.
Simon is not going to think about it.
"Oh!" the guy jumps, claps his hands together- Simon flinches at the sound- and then, excitedly: "You're on the Hail Mary! In space!"
He throws his hands out, wiggling them slightly in- actually, Simon has no clue what that's supposed to mean. He raises an eyebrow.
The Hail Mary doesn't ring any bells.
"Who're you with?"
The guy falters. Again. It's kind of pathetic.
"Um," he says. Looks over his shoulder, then back at Simon, making a face like it's a hard question. Like anybody would just be floating around alone.
"You said we," Simon reminds him.
"Oh," the guy laughs. "Yeah! That's, um-" he makes a face. Looks back over his shoulder, and then back at Simon, and rocks on his feet.
"Well."
Simon wants to hit this motherfucker in the face.
"Who are you?" he asks instead, because at least then he can curse him out by name. And maybe it'll be a clue, or something.
"Oh my gosh, I haven't even- I'm sorry! I forgot you weren't- well, nevermind that, you're rational now- I'm Dr. Captain Ryland Grace!"
He sticks out a hand. Smiles, wide, glistening, like getting blinded by some fucker's flash light, and Simon squints at it. Stares at the hand. At the distance between them.
"Okay," he says. "Who the fuck are you with?"
Ryland retracts his hand. Smile dimming.
"Um."
Simon might actually hit him in the face.
Maybe the guy- Ryland- picks up on his worsening mood, because he leans back, laughs a little sheepishly. Says: "look, it's just a little- I don't wanna spook you, is all. He's nobody bad! He's great, actually! You just didn't…"
He trails off. Gestures, vaguely, in Simon's general direction.
And yeah. Okay. He's still in the corner. And now that Simon is actually paying attention, he- they- seem to be in some form of medlab, and also there sure is a bunch of wires on the floor, and an IV stand, and yeah, okay, Simon definitely tore himself off the slab, didn't he.
"I'm not gonna freak out," he says, teeth only a little gritted.
Ryland gives him a look.
Simon gives him a look back.
"Okay," he says, edging back, looking over his shoulder again. "I- well, I guess an introduction can't hurt-"
And then a fucking ball comes bouncing in.
It takes Simon a second. The thing stops just short off taking Ryland out at the knee, jabbering up at him in a robotic, stilted voice.
It's not just a ball.
There's a fucking- thing inside it.
"What the fuck is that!" Simon shouts, definitely not freaking out.
"I told you!" Ryland shouts, same time as the thing in the ball says "is Rocky!" and Simon, shoulders racketing up to his ears, would really like something to defend himself with.
"He's friendly!" Ryland hurries to add, leaning down to try and block the thing from view, except it's wriggling about, moving behind his hands, and Ryland hisses something at it, too quiet for Simon to hear.
"He's not going to hurt you, I promise."
If he wasn't too busy being tense as fuck, Simon would laugh in his face.
"Is not going to hurt new Grace," the thing- Rocky??- echoes, peeking around Ryland's hands. "Promise!"
What the fuck. If it says so.
"Whatever," Simon hisses, squeezing his eyes shut, curling his hand- singular- into a fist. "Just-"
He breathes out. Claws his way back to something resembling stable, and there's literally bigger problems here. So the guy has a pet- thing. Whatever. Might as well happen. More importantly-
"Who are you with?"
"Um."
Ryland looks at his- Rocky, whatever- and gestures at him. Smiles. "Him?"
"Grace with Rocky," it- he?- says, tilting it's- rocks, it's made of rocks, of course it is- face? Maybe?? Up to Ryland. It has eight legs. Simon is just registering this now.
It's a spider rock.
"No, like-" he scratches his nails across skin, breathes out. His head throbs. "Who are you with? Faction wise?"
He's not fucking sure which would be better. Worse.
The two share a- a look? Somehow? Simon gets the sense they share a look, at least, and then they look back at him. Like he's speaking nonsense.
"Uuuh…" says Ryland.
"New Grace broken," Rocky says, sounding somehow let down.
"Can you just fucking answer my question?"
Ryland jumps. Rocky skitters back, then in front of him, like Simon is about to launch himself at Ryland. Maybe he should. Maybe they'd fucking answer him then.
"Sorry!" Ryland squeaks, leaning forward to put his palm flat on Rocky's ball. He's smiling again. "It's just- I'm not quite sure what you mean?"
Oh fuck off.
He digs his nails into his palm till it hurts, breathes out through gritted teeth. He is not going to call this moron an idiot to his face. That'd be stupid. Simon is smarter than that.
A test, he thinks, a little desperate about it. This has got to be some kind of test.
"The Consolidation of Iron," he says, monotone. "Eden. Which are you with?"
Ryland's face does not clear. There's not even a flicker of recognition, and Simon is fucking paying attention. Either he's got a poker face like no one else, or he is actually just stupid.
"Yeaaah," Ryland says, voice trailing apologetically. "That doesn't really… clear up anything. Sorry."
Simon covers his face. Presses his palm to it, hard enough that his vision blooms and fractures, and then he sits there, hissing air through his teeth, trying really, really, hard to reign himself in.
He hates being fucked with. He hates it. And sure, Ryland seems genuine enough, but Simon knows what this is. It's some kind of game, and Simon doesn't fucking know what he's hoping to accomplish with this, but- whatever. Whatever.
"I guess technically speaking I'm with Earth?" Ryland says, like he actually thinks Simon is stupid.
"Do you think I'm stupid?" Simon hisses, before he can think better off it.
"Um," says Ryland.
"Yes," says the fucking spider robot rock, and Simon has to physically clutch at his face to stop himself from hitting something, nails digging into skin and touching tender, bruised, areas, and the pain is a sharp, welcoming, distraction.
"Rocky!" Ryland scolds. "That's not nice."
"New Grace acting stupid," Rocky says. "Acting weird. Mean. Not like."
Great. The thing doesn't like him. Fantastic.
"Sorry," Ryland says, probably in his direction. "He's-" A pause, long, like Ryland is trying to find the words, and can't. "Well. He's kind of just like that."
"Rocky great," Rocky adds.
They're exhausting. They're running him in circles. Is playing with him, and Simon wants to snap and snarl and fucking shout, wants to make them fess up, to stop- whatever this is.
But he's exhausted. Tired. His body- his everything- hurts, one giant bruise, throbbing in unison, and he doesn't know what they're up to, what the point is, but they're dedicated to it, whatever it is. They're not going to break just because he pushes it, and, more importantly- Simon doesn't know what they'd do, if he gets violent.
He doesn't know- anything. Grace says they're in space, which is all well and good, but also, again, tells him nothing. And what does he mean they found him in space- last Simon remembers, he was in the fucking depths.
(the stench of blood, the boiling heat, the light, shimmering through the gaps)
He shudders. Rubs at his face, exhaling quietly.
They saved him. Somehow.
"Where'd you find me?" he asks, because maybe that they'll answer. "Like, was I just-" he hesitates, screws his face up. "-floating…?"
He knows he was in the sub. He remembers that. But he also remembers-
(pain)
Simon clenches his hand shut. Lowers it to his lap, breathing steadily through his teeth.
"Oh, yeah, actually!" Ryland perks up. Simon doesn't even have to look at him, can hear it just fine in his voice. "That's the really weird part- we found you in a submarine? Or well, it looks like a submarine, except it's kind of real banged up. There was this tear in one side, and something had grown over it?"
"Very strange," Rocky adds, and he's kind of. Wriggling. On his feet. "Did not seem safe."
Simon snorts. "No. It sure fucking wasn't."
"Were you… supposed to be in space?"
"No."
He doesn't look at them. Stares down at the floor, then at his knees, at his hand. The silence that settles over them isn't just awkward- it's heavy, pitiful, and Simon is too tired to be mad.
Like you're any better, he thinks, spiteful, but even that sounds weak. At least they didn't leave him in the SM-13. At least they got him out.
The thought rushes through him.
Takes his breath away, punches out everything else, and like a light flickering off, it hits him all at once.
He's out.
He's not- he's not free. But he's not in the sub. He's not at the bottom of the ocean. He's not in a cell. Fuck, he's not even dead.
His breath hitches. Stutters. His chest spasms, hand curling into a tight, shaking, fist. He stares, blind, down at himself.
He got out.
He got out.
He swallows. Tries to, and it sticks in his throat, everything too big, his body too small for it, and he hunches down, suddenly can't breathe. He's out, he's out, he didn't die, how didn't he die-
(he remembers dying)
(he remembers being torn apart, skin sloughing off his bones, flesh bubbling and twisting, blood in his mouth and his eyes, pain so brilliant he could barely think past it, drowning in it all, and screaming)
(he thinks he burst)
(he thinks he exploded)
"Hey, uh- you okay?"
Simon snaps his head up.
Ryland is kneeling not even an arm-lengths away, peering down at him, eyes blue and big and worried, and Simon stares at him, thrown entirely off-course.
Even Rocky is looking at him, sitting beside Ryland in his little ball, standing on his toes, making a sound that's almost- soothing. Like chimes. Simon remembers chimes.
He leans back. "Y-yeah. Yeah. I'm- fine."
Ryland makes some kind of face. "It's okay if you aren't. You were kind of at death's door." He smiles awkwardly at that.
Simon gives himself a quick once-over, hasn't actually bothered to really register the state of himself yet. It's not the worst condition he's ever been in, which is- actually really fucking weird. He's covered in half-healed bruises, and there's an ugly looking scab along the inside of his wrist, and there's the whole- missing an arm thing, but outside of that, he's fine. And considering what he remembers, that's. Not right.
"How long have I been here?" he asks, checking his legs. At least he's wearing underwear.
Ryland hums, thoughtful.
"Eight Grace sleeps," Rocky says. "And Grace not sleep right."
"I was worried," Ryland huffs, leaning his shoulder against the ball, wobbling a little as he shifts his weight. "Excuse me for caring."
Simon's brow twitches.
"But yeah, probably around… ten days, since we found you? Considering all the blood, you're in remarkable good shape." He shivers a little at the blood, grimacing as it crosses his lips, and Simon thinks of the way his skin as split, bubbled, and has no fucking clue how he's not a melted pile of bones.
"Weird," he murmurs, carefully putting his hand beneath himself, starting to leverage himself upright- his muscles scream in protest, but Simon is mostly naked, on the floor, and possibly captive. He can fucking handle standing up.
"Woah, hey-" Ryland leans in, hands coming out, reaching- and Simon flinches away.
His elbow bonks into the wall behind him. He doesn't quite fall, but his weight does tip him backward, has his back and shoulder against the wall. He forces himself not to snarl. To tell Ryland to get the fuck away from him.
Ryland freezes. Looks at him, wide-eyed, and then, slowly, carefully, pulls his arms back.
"Sorry," he says, hesitant. His eyes flicker from his face to his shoulder to the stump of where his arm used to be, and Simon glares. "I just- don't want you to fall."
"I'm fine," Simon snaps.
"Okay," Ryland says. His shoulders hunch a little. He looks at Simon like he wants nothing more than to help.
It gives Simon the fucking creeps.
With a huff, he gets himself upright- staggers only a little when he finally stretches out, blood rushing to his head, vision dotting black. He keeps his hand on the wall. His knees ache. He feels awful, but he's standing up. It's good enough.
"What now?" he huffs, swallowing dry spit and something that he refuses to acknowledge is a pant. He's fine.
"Uh," Ryland says. Again. He does this a lot. Simon has no idea how this is supposed to be the captain. "Well- I guess I could… show you Mary?"
Simon does not care about the ship. Simon wants to sit the fuck down, actually, because yeah, the more he's standing here, the worse he's starting to feel- but getting a layout of the place would be smart. And Simon has no idea how patient Ryland is.
"Sure," he says, and forces himself to stop hunching. His stomach cramps. His muscles ache. There's a dull throbbing in his head.
Ryland smiles at him. "Okay!" he says, clapping his hands together again, and Simon winces at the noise, squints through the sudden bloom of pain.
And then Ryland starts rambling.
It's about a minute into watching him gesture and talk about nothing, that Simon's reminded he's still mostly naked. His skin goosebumps. It's not quite cold, but it's definitely not pleasant, and Simon shifts uneasily from foot to foot. Frowns.
"Actually," he says, interrupting Ryland in the middle of a sentence. "Could I-" he hesitates. The back of his neck prickles. Unease at asking for something blooms right beneath his skin, the clawing knowledge that this will cost him heavy on his neck.
He's going to be cold, he reminds himself. He has no idea what state the temperature regulator is in, and if it goes on the fritz, he could actually die.
(also, he would actually just really like to be wearing something)
"Clothes?"
He doubts his own survived.
Ryland looks at him- for a second, he seems genuinely thrown, like he had just forgotten that Simon was mostly-naked, and then, cheeks fucking flushing, he makes the oddest fucking sound.
"Yep! Yep, I- sorry, I forgot- no, of course, let me-" he turns around. Blusters. The tips of his ears are red.
"Not Grace naked?" Rocky asks, turning from Ryland to Simon, rocking on his toes. "Grace not give clothes?"
"I forgot!" Ryland whines, covering his face, then seeming to remember he's supposed to be finding clothes, and jogging forward, half-turning, catching himself, and then just calling over his shoulder: "The dormitory is right here, I should have something you can wear!"
Actually, saying the dormitory is right there, is maybe an overstatement.
Simon hadn't really paid as much attention as he probably should have been, because the medlab- which is definitely too fancy a word for what the place actually is- is very clearly just a little room off the dormitory, not much bigger than a single slab for someone to lie on. Simon barely has to take more than a few steps, before he's in said dormitory.
It's not particularly big either.
There's three beds. Total. Ryland is already at one of them, going through what's seems to be a pile of clothes, mumbling quietly to himself. Rocky's followed him, watching him sort through the mess, adding commentary that's not that quiet, though Simon lets the words pass him by. Instead, leaning his shoulder against the wall, Simon catches his breath.
So. Ryland saved him. Cut him out- presumably- of the SM-13, and then kept him around to- what? Ryland hasn't questioned him, at least not yet, and Simon hadn't even been tied up. There's no security measures, at least as far as Simon can see, and sure, there's- Rocky. Whatever the fuck he is. And it would probably hurt, getting hit with him full-force, but that doesn't seem particularly well-thought out. A gun would do the job much easier.
Ryland doesn't have a gun.
Simon tilts his head. Double-checks, just to be sure, and nope. Ryland is clad in loose, comfortable, clothes, and does not, in fact, look like any kind of captain Simon's ever seem. He's not even wearing shoes. There's a hole in one of his socks, right on the heel.
Simon doesn't know what this is.
His first though, the gut instinct, is that Ryland is with the COI, and is playing some kind of game. But why would they bother? What would be the point? The COI wouldn't send a guy like this, wouldn't let him run around this freely. Sure, he's one arm down, but the COI can't be as stupid as to think that'd stop him. Simon could kill this guy, easy as anything, and there seems to be nothing in place to stop him.
He narrows his eyes.
It doesn't make sense. Nothing is adding up. Simon's decent at reading people, and Ryland really didn't seem to recognise the COI, or Eden. So, what- a free agent?
There used to be people like that, back at the start. People who refused to join up with a bigger group. Who tried to make it on their own. All of them had died.
Ryland doesn't seem the type.
"Here!"
Simon jumps- clenches his fist, thinks, fuck, and then catches himself. Ryland's turned towards him, arms outstretched, a shirt hanging from between his fingers. There's a pair of pants folded over his arm.
Ryland offers him a smile. "Hopefully these will do- they might be a little tight, considering your, uh-" he trails off. Gestures, vaguely. "Well. Physique."
"That's fine," Simon grunts, stepping forward. He reaches out, goes to snatch the shirt from Ryland, and then his fingers touch the material.
He freezes.
"What," he manages, staring wide-eyed at the fabric between his fingers.
"What?" Ryland echoes, confused.
Rocky makes what sounds like a long-suffering honk.
"It's soft," Simon says, gently rubbing it between his fingers. It's- he doesn't recognise this fabric. Hasn't ever felt anything like it, either.
"… is that bad?"
Simon laughs. It sounds rough, even to his own ears.
"What the fuck," he hisses, snatching the shirt from Ryland, taking a staggering step back. "How do you-"
He clenches his mouth shut.
Ryland is staring at him, wide-eyed, confused, pants held to his chest, and Simon swallows it. Forces his jaw to unclench.
"Thank you," he says, stiffly. His head spins.
"You're welcome…?" Ryland shuffles a step back, looks at Rocky, then back at him- and reaches out his hand, offering up the pants.
Simon takes those too.
The shirt is easy enough to get on. Ryland is right, however- it's a little tight across the chest, and the flap of loose fabric at his left side is annoying, but Simon is, at least, covered again. Meanwhile, the pants is another affair. Without a second hand to get them up, he has to wriggle and jump about, pulling them up as he goes, and it could be worse, Simon knows it could be worse, but fucking hell, his body hurts.
There's also a button.
Simon glares down at it. Wheezing in breath. He can do it one-handed, he has done it one-handed, but it feels, suddenly, awkward. Insurmountable. Simon is going to fucking lose his actual shit.
"Do you… need help?"
Simon glares. He fucking glowers.
Ryland wilts. Holds up his hand, palms out, and murmurs an apology. He has a pair of socks in one hand.
"It's fine," Simon grunts, lowering his gaze again. Fumbles with it, fingers suddenly clumsy. It doesn't help he's tired. That his head hurts. That everything is one, giant, bruise, and also, hey, he's stuck in space with a stranger and his weird fucking rock, and also, actually, Simon should be fucking dead-
He slams his hand against his thigh. Breathes out, sharp, squeezing his eyes shut. He can feel Ryland's eyes on him. It prickles across his skin, makes his shoulder hitch. He wants to snap at him. Wants to shout.
But Ryland is an unknown. Ryland is in charge. Ryland has a giant alien rock thing at his side, and Simon has no idea how to deal with that, so he has to fucking calm down.
"I don't mind," Ryland says, like he can't fucking help himself. "It'd-"
"Fine!"
Simon does not mean it to come out that loud.
Ryland jumps. Rocky rolls forward, bonking against Ryland's shin, voice rising in a cluttered ring of noise, and Simon squeezes his eyes shut again, fights back the thundering in his head, and repeats himself, softer: "Fine. Just fucking. Do it."
There's a moment of hesitation. Then, slowly, feet scraping across the floor, Ryland comes over to him.
Simon clenches his hand into a fist.
Ryland leans down. Makes quick work of it, professional as anything, touch light and careful, and it is fine, it is, except Simon's skin rise in a rush of goosebumps, something vile clawing up his throat. Ryland is close. Simon can feel the heat of his body, there, and he wants nothing more than to get away.
The button slips into place.
Ryland steps back.
"Humans weird," Rocky intones, and Ryland snorts, tension fading from his shoulder.
Simon can't unclench his hand.
"Well," Ryland says, clapping his hands together again. "You still up for a tour?"
"Sure," Simon says. It takes effort.
Ryland nods. And then he starts talking, and Simon should pay attention, should be listening, but his head is rushing and his chest is squeezing, and he can't stop feeling Ryland's warmth, like a fucking gun to his head, and he watches, blind, as Ryland gestures and turns around, and it's nearly impossible, to follow him out the room.
There's a hallway, outside. And the first thing Simon sees, is stars.
The breath knocks out of him. He stops, mid-step, and can't fucking turn his head, can't get his eyes away, because he's never-
They're so-
Nails break skin.
Simon shudders in a breath.
Okay, he thinks, turning his head back away. Okay. So Ryland has fake windows. With videos of stars on them. Okay. That's- fine. That's weird. That's strange, but that's none of Simon's fucking business, and mechanically, feeling worn down and hollow, he follows Ryland away from the sight.
And he doesn't look back.