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The panel marked with a medical warning and a code lock behind Armando mocks him. Various tools scatter the floor; screwdrivers, a hammer, anything in that toolkit he could potentially wedge between the panel and the wall. His hand bats away Armando's attempts to grab at him, or the comical shirts that are spotty at best in his memory of what had been before this, all of this.
Sweat drips down his back, dampening the shirt falling off one of his shoulders. Unsteady on his own feet, he stares down the robot stopping him from getting into the medical supplies locked behind that panel.
"Armando, just let me get into it. Who's it gonna hurt?"
"Ryland Grace; History of suppressant abuse—requires monitoring on medication. I cannot open the case without an authorization code."
"I'm not abusing anything-! Gosh! Please, just open it." Grace pants. At his sides, his hands shake. A tremor he's grown intent on ignoring, or easing with the medication he knows is locked behind that panel. If Armando would just unlock it for him, that would make this a whole lot easier.
Painted metal flakes off the panel and wall, marking useless attempts to pry open the last of the medical storage boxes. Armando stops him at every step he makes towards the panel again. A stupid chunk of metal and a speaker standing between him and what's in that box, and a bottle of water and a handful of skittles separating Grace from that growing fuzziness in his mind.
He needs the suppressants. Armando stopped dispensing them three days ago—two weeks into a four year trip home—if he remembers correctly and he knows they're locked in that dumb box he can't pry open with any of the scattered tools and his bloodied fingertips from past attempts. It's the one thing stopping him from dropping right then and there, they're just in that box, can't Armando tell that he needs it?
"I can't open it without authorization."
"Why's the gosh darn passcode so important to you?! Let me in! I'm the only one here!" Grace bites at the air, stepping forward once again to get nudged back closer to the beds. His arms reach out to grab the robotic arm, holding and shaking it as if that will help anything at all. He just needs a couple pills, or maybe patches. Heck, maybe there's the injections. Stratt brought a lot of things, maybe those were more shelf stable? He'll take the shot if it gets rid of this feeling.
He'll do a lot of things to get rid of the nausea churning in his stomach, or the headache brewing between his eyebrows. That small 'L' on all his files doomed him to this, being Little. All the aches and pains that come with it, too. If the burning loneliness wasn't crushing enough. He needs the medicine, he needs it to go away.
How much harder can it be to open that darn case? It can't be that strong. Will it be the death of his fingertips before the dang panel ever opens, though? He'll take the suppressants sparingly this time, he just needs them now.
"I can't open it without a code. It is for your safety."
"My safety? My safety?!" He drops his grasp on the robotic body, nostrils flaring. A child-like rage growing in his body. Tension tightening his shoulders, drawing his eyebrows together and pursing his lips. He doesn't need to be told no. That's not fair! He's eleven or so light years away from home with a tummy ache and there's no one to hold him when he cries. Not a soul to wipe away the tears when the anger turns to sobs. It's just him here. All the way out here.
"Yes, your safety."
Grace's jaw clenches. Exhausted eyes trailing over Armando, then the panel, and back again.
His fist collides with the panel, the pain blooming rapidly before he can form any semblance of a plan in his mind whatsoever. Body moving with it's only purpose to get behind the panel. There's the fainest alarmed sound from the robot behind him, and what sounds like mechanical whirring, but the moment Armando gets any closer, Grace messily kicks behind him. A harsh stomp, a couple following that—He needs what's in there.
It borders animalistic. Scrappy, desperate… The wall gathers red streaks of blood where Grace tugs and tugs at the panel. All those harsh edges cutting him up, yet that need aches deeper than any surface wound. A sturdy looking tool gaining a similar treatment as the wall when he wedges that behind it too, despite how many times he's failed before. A small utility tool for prying things open. Yes, that's what he should've been using the entire time.
Breaths come in heavy, or not much at all once the tool is lined up. Cheeks puffed out like a little kid fighting with child lock, except he has the adult tools, red and damp with sweat. It beads at his forehead, strands of hair stuck to his face. Please. Open. He presses into the tool, using more and more weight.
The small squeak of hinges loosening forces him to inhale, letting out an exasperated laugh. Almost, almost.
"Can't stop me, Armando. See? I'm crafty." Grace glances back towards it, an all too proud grin splattered across his face. What would Rocky think of this? What would he say, watching Grace do something so desperately? The smile falls slightly. What would Rocky tell him?
Call him pathetic, maybe. Tell him to come sit by him for a little bit… Would he keep Grace company when the fuzziness creeps in deeper? Briefly, Ryland hopes he'd get teased for this. Something to break the anger in his body, shake it from his soul. Anything but the way he's looked at—analyzed by—a snarky robot without a consciousness to care.
"You're bleeding."
"I know that!" He bites, only keeping Armando at an arm, or leg's, distance with another attempt at a kick in that directly. Grip slipping from the tool and sending it clattering to meet the others on the ground, blood blends with the red handle.
Grace only sighs. Angry red finger tips brush over the weak spot he's broken. A bigger slot for a better tool, he hopes. He can wedge three fingers into that gap, where he couldn't even fit the tip of his pinky before.
Another tool on the floor grabs his attention. Not quite a crowbar, but a bigger size than what he just dropped. He wrings his hands, and winces at that movement, before leaning down to the pile below him. Tossing a couple tools out of the way first, then picking up the one he's looking for. He hardly registers how much heavier it is in his desperation to open the dang thing. Wedging it perfectly into the broken slot, and pressing. Using all his weight into it.
The metal creaks, quiet then louder.
His panting breaths and low grunts fill the space. Every time he adds more pressure, he can practically hear Armando looking at him. Following him with it's camera eyes, watching him get hurt for the sake of a medication. Grace can't bring himself to care too much when he's so damn close to it.
He bites down hard on his cheek as he adds just a little bit more weight into the tool.
Ryland hits the ground face first with a loud thud. That panel door opens with an equal crash against the wall, echoing through the room for a moment. A satisfied smile grows again, pulling himself up off the floor with his shaking hands grasping the edge of the now open cubby. His shoulders drop.
"I got it, I got it!" He exclaims, clapping his hands together just once upon standing. The slight sway hardly matters when he finally got into the case that's been practically taunting him.
Reaching in, he pulls out a few empty boxes of pills. Okay, that's fine. They clatter to the mess on the floor.
Another box falls. Sure, that's alright.
He checks one by one, out of several boxes. There has to be more.
His stomach ties itself into a knot after checking each pill box.
Throat tightening with every patch box he drops.
Don't do this to him.
That smile fades away with all of those empty container.
Bile joins the mess on the floor once he cleans the entire cubby of any medications.
They're all out.
Every kind. How many had he used? He only had… A couple patches on at a time, maybe four? He only took two pills at once! Other than the times he took three, but that was only a couple times, wasn't it? How is he out? He wasn't dependent on them. He just- he just had things to do! He had to save everyone. Earth, Erid… He was responsible with what he had, wasn't he?
No, no, they can't be out.
A broken sound is pulled from his throat. His knees hit the ground next to the now disgusting pile, but his hands search through everything one more time. Just to be sure. Chest heaving, fingers wet with his blood, and now vomit. It stings, but he moves anyway. A disgusting feeling tangles itself within him, wrapped around his fingers and up his arms. Wormed right into his veins, following them right to his heart that misses a beat or two in his panic.
His face twists. They can't be out. He needs them. How is he going to do his alone? He's weeks away now from any life form that treated him with an ounce of kindness, with any kind of care.
One by one, all over again. Checking and checking… But he knows better. In his head, he knows better. There's nothing there. He finished off the suppressants with a double dose to worm out the fuzziness that's crashing over him like waves now. Head spinning, he sucks in a shaking breath.
A small whimper breaks from his chest first, his hands falling into his lap, and then a louder cry. Tears never wasted time filling his eyes, not when he was a kid and certainly not now. Faster than a flood, rivers of tears spill from his eyes. He can't stop it from bubbling in his chest, that loud cry Caregivers would run to with a need to fix it.
In the void of space, he wails. A broken, desperate cry. With no one to come for him, the sound spills anyway. It bounces off the walls, carried through the entire ship and back to his own ears. His voice trembles and breaks, like the rest of him.
Not a pill to save him, no patch to slap on his back. It takes him down from his knees onto the floor, only shuffled slightly away from his mess to look at what he's done. His blood on the wall, his vomit over empty cardboard, tools scattered around… That was all for nothing? All of it? His fist throbs, and all he can do with it is clutch it to his chest.
There's no one to kiss his wounds. There's no fun themed bandaids to cover up his cut up fingertips. There's no one to rub away his belly ache. At that, his sobs shake his entire body with their force.
A soon-to-bruise hand clutched to his chest, and the other rapidly rising to knock against the side of his head. The only air he gets are what he gasps between loud bawls not a soul could hear. Nobody is next to him to guide him to steady breaths. No one's hand will rub his back, no one will hold him to their chest. He chokes on his own cry.
Familiar mechanical sounds move behind him, but he doesn't bother to turn. He doesn't care to. There's not a warm face there. He won't be gathered into someone's arms and so softly hummed to. There's no Caregiver aboard this ship. He sent their bodies out to the silence of space, as respectful as he could've done for their memory being more hazy than anything in his terrified mind.
He would've liked for them to hold him. Once, at least. A solid body against him, a comforting presence next to him… Why did he have to survive this? Is that supposed to be fair?
"Grace," The robotic arm grabs onto his wrist, stopping him from hitting himself more, "Don't hurt yourself."
"Lemme go-!" Grace tugs, his muscles too worn down and Armando too much machinery to stop him much more than that. "Jus' go away! Leave me alone."
Only once he stops pulling does Armando release him. The robot lingers, but Grace merely tucks himself smaller on the floor. A slow rock to his otherwise still, balled up position. Knees to his chest, an arm around those while his other hand is against his chest. Small, and not small enough.
If he was small enough, would they have ever sent him out here to die? Would they have watched him drop—or crash—and just pulled him aboard anyway? They strapped him in knowing he is so, so small, and sent him up to die anyway. To die alone.
There's no Mama to cry for. No Dada that will scoop him up. No Caregiver to rub his back. If he even makes it back to his solar system, there's a big chance he doesn't make it back into Earth's atmosphere, and he will still die alone. How could they sentence him to his death when he begged for them not to? How hard was he supposed to beg? Could that ever have made a difference?
Could anyone at least have held him while they did?
He can only imagine himself against someone's chest, anyone's, as they knocked him out. He can only sob to the thought of falling asleep in someone's arms. Had he been just a kid the last time he fell asleep cradled like that?
"Doctor Grace, you are going to make yourself sick again."
The harsh cries don't stop. Each gasp hurts his chest and each cry, every wail, burns his throat. His tears wet his shirt, he only gives a poor attempt at wiping away the snot dripping from his nose. No one will clean him up. Nobody will appear in front of him to lift him up off the floor and clean him up before bed time.
Ryland's shoulders squeeze in tightly, he bites his lip between his teeth. Like a teething toy, he gnaws at it. Harsh, but everything on his face tingles with only distant sensation. If he were home, he'd have a collection of pacifiers he could chew on. Chewable jewelry, or thick teethers, all in their bright colors with old bite marks still left in them.
Hiccups accompany his cries, his lungs attempt to force him to breathe and slow down for a single second, but there's no slowing this down. Brittle nails dig into his knee where he's holding his knees up to his chest. Pressing and pressing before scratching along the red, irritated skin. He can't stop it, he can't slow down. Falling doesn't slow mid-air if you cry hard enough, or if you beg to be on solid land. Gravity isn't kind—He's falling, he's crashing, whether he tries to help himself or not.
The river that floods from him doesn't stop because he asked the tears to go away in that sniffly, soft voice. It'll drown him before he learns to swim. No one can snatch him from the harsh current's grasp.
"Doctor Grace."
His head falls forward into his knees briefly, only to pick it back up with a sharp strain down his neck. The only sound coming to his ears is the ringing in his own head. Ground swaying beneath him, he only clutches himself tighter, slipping his arm from against his chest to hold his knees up, as if he can squeeze himself back together again.
A cool silicone presses against his shoulder, the four little pinchers hold like a hand over the shirt. It stills his subtle rocking, a display of artificial kindness that Grace leans back into just sightly.
He releases his lip from between his teeth only to gasp again. Big, teary blue eyes turn to Armando. Through the tears, he can only see so much, but there's a little scuff on Armando, where he kicked and the smallest mess where he grabbed with his bloodied fingers. The robot doesn't feel pain, it doesn't get hurt, but he still left little marks. Something in him cries harder for hurting Armando—the same part that bawled when he dropped a stuffed animal off his bed in the middle of the night, the same part that bit his tongue when he put his beloved blanket into the washer, and the same part that felt bad for the trees and rocks with carvings in them.
"Grace, are you listening?"
There's no legible reply, nothing more than a shudder as he looks at the pieces of metal, plastic and silicone designed to take care of him. The voice doesn't meet his ears. If he heard anything at all, Grace doesn't show it. His nose merely crinkles with a desperate attempt to sniffle and clear it, followed by another broken sobbing sound.
Blurred, Ryland can make out the shuffling movement of Armando's other arms when his eyes blink open for split second between his incessant cries.
The prick on his arm out of his view comes without any more warning than that. Wet eyes shoot open, desperate breaths fill his lungs.
"No, no-"
Another wail forces it's way from his throat, though it dies almost as soon as it comes from him.
"It's for your own safety, doctor Grace."
Right there on the floor, his body begins to loosen and steadily go limp.
Armando carries him from the floor, into his bed pod. The ship is all too quiet as the Little gets tucked into bed by something artificially caring. Cold tools lay a blanket over him and settle him in with a little fox stuffed animal, rather than warm hands.
No one sings to him, no one kisses his forehead, no one tells him goodnight. A tan bandage gets slapped over the prick in his arm, his wounds get cleaned and his mouth gets wiped off, but its all done out of necessity and not care.
Ryland Grace is forced into restless, empty sleep. Nobody will be there when he wakes up. Nobody will coo at him when he does a biiiig stretch. Nobody will cuddle with him until the sleep is gone from his eyes.
It's only him.