Chapter Text
His mouth tasted like iron, the taste thick on his tongue even as he struggled to swallow it away. His throat felt like sandpaper, grainy and rough, burning as he sucked in lungfuls of cool air.
For the first few seconds between the oblivion of unconsciousness and the sheer strain of reawakening, Simon's brain struggled to catch up.
He felt… odd, to say the least. Like his skin was made of leather and his limbs were made of ice. He didn't know what was going on, or where he was. All he knew was an off putting sense of numbness and the sensation of cotton in his ears.
Moving even a single finger took all the energy he had within him, the tide of lucidity ebbing, leaving him adrift in gentle twilight, his skin buzzing, the time flying by.
He had no idea how much time passed before he was able to open his eyes even a fraction. He expected to see the inevitable, a sea of blood stretching out all around him, impossible in its vastness and hiding away hellish monsters that even Hell itself would cower from.
Instead of red, however, Simon was met with light so blinding it was painful. He let out a hiss and closed his eyes the second the light came into view, recoiling on reflex and finally regaining some sense of his surroundings.
It was at that moment that he realized something important. Not just about the light but about how he felt, or more appropriately— what.
His fingers brushed something soft, trying to make out the material through touch alone. It seemed to be some sort of fabric, smooth against his skin and blissfully comfortable, almost to a luxurious degree.
The sensation brought a dawning realization, a memory bobbing to the surface of his mind, marred by fear and haunting voices.
He remembered tearing. Remembered flesh rending apart, falling to pieces like tenderized meat slow roasted over an open flame. He remembered pain so intense it blurred his vision. Remembered being unable to dwell on it in those final few seconds before it all came to an end, the rage overcoming him as those voices grew to a crescendo.
He should be dead, but instead, he seemed to be mostly intact, save for a missing limb. That had apparently been real.
It was an odd sensation to feel the space where an arm once was yet be conscious of its absence at the same time. When he thought about moving his fingers, he felt them move, but when he tried to feel the softness all around him… nothing.
That sensation transfixed him for a time, pulling his mind from the looming struggle of flashing memories and an uncooperative body.
He was distracted until he became aware of a new sound, muffled at first, but becoming so clear so quickly it felt like being pulled from a pool of water.
Sensation rose and deafened him for a few precious moments, before he was suddenly confronted by his environment, full of gentle hums and an odd, incessant beep… beep… beep.
For a brief second, he thought, they found me. They saved me just in time, only for that thought to be torn away from him along with everything else.
This wasn't a building he recognized. In fact, the architecture alone was enough to tell him a few things.
First, this was not the C.O.I. Their buildings tended to be… industrial. Built for function not for comfort, with iron walls and yellow paint. Hard cots. Bland clothing. Nothing colorful or even beautiful. Just… what was needed to keep a body from getting too hot or too cold, on top of machines they'd allowed him to work on before striking him this deal.
It wasn't Eden, either. It was too bright, and besides, he would have recognized its walls even in the worst of states. He often dreamt of the small, warm space he'd shared with his mother, and where he'd curl up after she was gone.
Those memories were what kept him sane throughout his imprisonment. Through all the questioning, the intimidation, and the threats.
This wasn't Eden and it wasn't the C.O.I. and it certainly wasn't Filament Station. The walls were too white. Too clean, the lights bright and blinding unlike the dim darkness he'd grown accustomed to. It took longer than Simon wanted to admit to adapt to them. He still wasn't fully… present yet. Something seemed to be weighing him down, or keeping him in place, but what exactly, he didn't know.
No matter what he told his body to do, it wouldn't listen. Moving seemed to take enormous amounts of strength, leaving him sapped and frustrated on this soft… bed? He thought it was some sort of bed, but his vision was too blurry to make out much detail.
It was as he was looking around that he registered movement. It flashed by his vision and seemed to dart out of view away from him before he could catch any detail.
For a moment, he thought it was the apparitions back to haunt his sight, vanishing just in time for him to get his eyes on them.
But it wasn't an apparition, or a phantom, or some snapshot of a horrid reality. Whoever it was, or whatever, came soaring back into the room seconds later, bringing another with it.
It made an unusual clanking noise as it moved, causing Simon's hackles to rise and finally breaking whatever spell he had been under.
He suddenly found himself able to move, scrambling back blindly until his back hit something hard. He felt around for something to protect himself with until his fingers brushed something cold and smooth. He grasped it firmly and held up what he now realized was a glass bottle full of sloshing liquid, the cap cool in the palm of his hand.
He held it out in front of his chest as the words of a machine spoke above his head, the sound unrecognizable to his ears.
“Warning. Unknown entity detected.”
One of the newcomers, a blonde man with light eyes and glasses, took a step forward. He said something that stopped the overhead voice, holding up his hands in a placating gesture.
Despite that, Simon lifted the bottle higher, preparing to defend himself if either entity grew any closer.
“Hey,” the man said. “It's okay, buddy. You don’t have to do that— you're safe.”
Simon didn't understand a word. Because of this, he pulled his knees in tighter and made himself as small as possible, keeping a sharp eye on the man and the… rock? What exactly was that thing rolling around in the crystalline ball? It made some sort of musical sound as it spoke. A sound this stranger apparently understood. At least— if the expression on the man's face was any indication.
“St-stay the fuck back,” Simon cursed, surprising even himself with the crackling of his own voice. He meant it to sound menacing, but instead, it came out as a dry grumble, his throat too dehydrated to speak properly. Even so, he continued, “I'm warning you.”
The man didn't seem to understand, but despite that, he stayed put, watching Simon with a calculating stare. His glasses sat ajar on his face, hanging loose around his jaw. He shoved them back in place as he decided how to proceed, counting in his head as Simon leveled him with a stare of his own.
He opened his mouth and spoke more gibberish in Simon's direction. “You can't understand me, can you? I had a feeling that'd be the case. The stuff we found on your ship wasn't written in English. It is okay, though. I promise. We’re not going to hurt you.”
Simon was briefly distracted by the sounds he was hearing, his guard falling for all of a second as he narrowed his gaze at this stranger.
This brief lapse in his guard allowed that rock— thing to sneak up on him. It appeared at his side quicker than Simon thought possible, sending a bolt of pain through him as he jumped and fought to get away. He pushed himself up against the opposite corner of the bed, keeping the bottle handy even as his composure crumbled.
The stranger said something sharp and biting, drawing a similar response from the thing before him.
They started to argue, their voices adding to the chaos already happening inside Simon's mind.
At his limit, Simon took a calculated swing just as the creature pulled itself up onto the bed. The bottle smashed against the crystalline surface of this thing's protective shell and sent the shards flying, the water spilling down the sides of that iridescent ball and Simon’s hand.
He let out a hiss of pain as the neck of the bottle crumbled in his grip, driving shards of glass into his palm and dribbling blood which fell from his hand to the pristine white sheets beneath him.
“Rocky,” the man said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I told you to stay back, bud. He just woke up, remember? I'm sure he's scared and confused. You gotta give the guy some space.”
The rock, ball thing made a dissatisfied noise, springing up in its indignation against whatever the man had said. “But Grace! Rocky not hurt new human. Rocky safe.”
The irritation on the man's face didn't go away, but it did soften. “He doesn't know that, Rock. Remember how I screamed the first time we met? He's like that.”
“Yes, yes, yes. Grace dumb for fear of Rocky. Rocky safe. Not hurt you.”
“But does he know that?” The man asked, pointing to Simon.
The rock spider creature seemed to deflate in its ball, making a downshifted noise that almost resembled a low-toned slide whistle. “No. Rocky understand, statement. Rocky not mean to scare new human. Just curious. Curious about human for science!”
“I know, bud. Just— get back. Before he decides to swing again.”
“Wouldn't work. Rocky too strong for weak bottle, statement.”
The man shook his head like it was all too much for him. “Yes, I know, Rock. Now go. Please.”
The creature moved itself off of Simon's bed, allowing him some space to breathe again. He stared at his hand, at the blood seeping around shards of glass, and was brought back to a sweltering ship with horrific creatures and phantoms looming over his shoulder.
The hair on his remaining arm stood up on end. The only thought in his head was that of his survival. He couldn't pilot a ship with shards of glass in his hand, so he lifted his palm and got his teeth around one of the jagged pieces, pulling it free with little care for the damage it might have done.
“Wait—” The man took a step forward on reflex, watching with horror as Simon smeared blood on his face, spitting the shard onto the sheet in front of his lap. “Let me help. You'll hurt yourself more doing that.”
Simon's gaze shot up as he registered the man's proximity, eyes wide like a child caught stealing a piece of candy. The man gave him an apologetic look as the intensity of that stare pierced through him, suspicious and unrelenting.
He held up his hands again, giving Simon a weak and faltering smile. “I want to help. I really won't hurt you. I promise.”
He took another careful step forward and Simon kept staring. He knew any words he said would fall on deaf ears, so he allowed the man to come closer, secure in the fact that this stranger was scrawny where Simon was not.
There was one thing in life that had never failed Simon, and that was his own strength pitted against that of most others. He was sure that, given the need, he could overpower this person without a second thought, so he remained on the defensive, prepared to pounce if the need hit him.
Instead of approaching Simon directly, the man sat on the edge of the bed on the furthest corner away from Simon, carefully picking up the pieces of glass and discarding them in a nearby trashcan.
Simon watched as the man spoke a few words, bringing to life the machine that had previously stood still beside them.
It handed the man his supplies, consisting of a set of tweezers, some disinfectant, and a small roll of clean white gauze.
He moved slowly and deliberately, aware of Simon's unrelenting stare and the intensity of those warm, but suspicious bronze eyes.
He held out a hand, allowing Simon to make the decision when he deemed it safe enough.
Simon looked at the hand like he was afraid it'd reach out and hurt him. He stayed curled into a ball, ignoring both the pain and the man, sure it was some sort of trap.
It took him a long time to gather the courage to try, but as the adrenaline faded from his system, the exhaustion started seeping in. It tugged on his shoulders, weighing him down and making him sluggish, and thus, more likely to trust.
He hesitated as he placed his hand in the one offered, fingers twitching when he finally made contact.
It wasn't like Simon had much of a choice, anyway. He didn't know what this place was or who this person was. The only real way he'd get answers was by being patient, not stubborn.
Besides, he was still reeling from the fact that he was even here to begin with. The last thing he remembered was the sound of his own voice moments after freeing himself from whatever substance had trapped his arms.
The thought of that memory brought the sensation to mind, and he began to tremble, ever so slightly. It didn't help that the smell of his own blood reminded him of his fate— a damned criminal doomed to succumb to the depths of a blood ocean. A fitting end for The Butcher.
But he hadn't succumbed, had he? He was sitting here, knees to his chest, watching a man with crooked glasses pull glass from the palm of his hand.
It was slow work. The pain kept him alert, even as the exhaustion threatened to pull his eyes closed.
The man seemed to notice his plight. He turned to Simon with a soft smile, holding Simon's hand with so much tenderness it made his chest ache.
“You can sleep if you need to. No need to pretend you’re not tired, right? You can relax. No one here wants to hurt you.”
Despite the unfamiliar words, Simon was smart enough to understand the sentiment behind them. Still, he didn't allow himself to rest until the glass was removed and the cuts were cleaned.
It was a relief when the bandages were applied and Simon's hand was returned to him. Despite his suspicion, there was a sad voice in the back of his head, mourning the loss of such a gentle touch. It made the ache in Simon's chest grow worse, but he ignored it, refusing to allow his guard down.
The gentle stranger's smile didn't fade. He turned to Simon slowly, returning that intense stare with kind eyes and a little wave.
He gestured to himself, that smile growing a little wider.
“Grace,” he said, pointing. “Understand? Grace.”
Simon copied the gesture with the only arm he had left, nodding his understanding. “Simon.”
The smile he received in return was angelic. The sight of it made Simon wonder if he really had died in that submarine. It was the only thing that seemed to make sense to him. There was no way he had made it out of there alive. No way he'd escaped mostly unscathed. This had to be some sort of afterlife. Some sort of salvation. It didn't make sense otherwise.
It was with that thought and with the image of that smile that Simon was left alone and allowed to sink back into his exhaustion. For the first time in many years, he closed his eyes with a sense of peace draped over his shoulders. It reminded him of how he felt every time he hugged his mother as a child. It was a security unlike anything he had felt in years, the realization hitting him just as his eyes slipped shut.
He drifted to sleep with the warmth of such kindness keeping him company, granting him rest which was both blank and deeper than he ever thought possible.
Maybe this really was the start of something new. Of something different than Simon had ever known before.
That thought was almost as foreign as the words Grace had spoken, playing on repeat in Simon's head as he drifted back into oblivion.