Chapter Text
Arms were wrapping around his legs and waist, and pulling him off of the ground.
"He's heavy, I can't-"
A voice murmured, pulling him from sleep again.
"Just stay with me, okay? Just hold on a little longer-"
He faded in and out of consciousness, as an ache echoed through his body, painful and sharp that reminded him he was alive.
Simon's mind drifted awake, heart pounding and head swimming with pain. His eyes opened a little, but he was met with a bright blurriness that did not fare well with the pain his whole body felt. The last thing he remembered was... The blood, seeping into the iron lung, filling his throat, taking him into the deep. A voice had spoken to him, begging for him to destroy the box, begging for him to give up and die.
He thought he took his last breath down there, in the terrifying abyss of darkness and red that he had been stuck in for what felt like his whole life. Wherever he was now was a question left unanswered. He remembered his arm being ripped from his body, the deep pain racing up his bicep and shoulder and coursing through his body. He didn't think he felt an arm on his left side, but his whole body felt so numb it was hard to tell. He attempted to lift his head up, but he was barely able to lift it an inch up before his body failed on him and it hit the pillow underneath his head.
Okay, just breathe. I'm alive. I'm alive. I'm... how did... but the C.O.I isn't…
Before any more thoughts plagued him, He heard a sound akin to the sweeping of metal against metal and panic overtook him. His fingers gripped the cloth underneath him, and something started to appear at the edge of his vision. A figure stepped into the light, arms extended, a figure that looked just like…
An angel.
It came closer, and a warm hand rested on his forehead. The sticky blood covering his whole body became apparent, as the hand lifted off his forehead and rested on his wrist. The voice from the angel whispered,
"Go back to sleep..."
And he listened, as he had not much of another choice as his eyelids became heavy and his mind drifted off again, s i n k i n g i n t o t h e s o f t b e d a n d . . .
Death had never been merciful to Simon.
He still remembers sobbing and hunching over his mother's body and screaming as if it would do something, anything to undo it. He had lost ... Well, anyone that ever cared about him. There was nothing left but his own stubborn will to survive, and he was sure that would abandon him too. Even as the world hated him, and everyone knew him as the butcher, the criminal casted down to his iron prison, left to die by those who promised him his simplest want and tore it away, he still knew that he would do anything to survive. When he realized that wasn't possible, getting the box, the chance of actual answers, was the next best option. Guess that made him a hero, but it didn't make him feel like one. He was a stubborn, angry, broken man who was cast aside, and why this figure had decided to give him what seemed like another chance felt unthinkable. A near death hallucination could be suspect, even his mind could be that cruel. But this didn't feel like that. Hell, that voice from the speaker seemed real and look where that got him, listening to it. The haunting darkness lingered in his mind, and he felt his mind coming back into consciousness in the soft bed of... Wherever he was.
Surely it couldn't have been Ava's ship, as she had been crushed and killed by the creature in the blood that tried to kill him. But no other people were out there, right? That's what Eden thought, at least. This didn't look like anywhere he'd ever been. Was this heaven? It could have been. He could be dead right now. It didn't sound that crazy anymore, at least it was peaceful.
His body was throbbing a little less, but he could clearly feel that his arm stopped right below his shoulder. The painful rip of his flesh was real, after all. The empty space where his limb should have been was haunting in an indescribable way. Where his fingers should have been was nothing. The sticky, red blood had been cleaned off from him, and the side of his cheek felt like it had been torn open from the side of his mouth, and like he had tape or something over it. A sort of plastic mask that smelled of antiseptic was pressed against his face and was connected by a tube to a nearby buzzing machine, and he was wearing something on his chest that felt much too tight. His stump of an arm was covered in bandage wrap, and he could see his surroundings more clearly now.
Simon was laying on a hospital bed, with clean white sheets in a padded room. A sort of machine arm was hovering above his head, and some crates held in place by straps and a ladder were to the right of the room. A door was several yards beyond the foot of the bed, and a bright ceiling light was overhead. A tray holding various medical supplies was next to the bed, which had a scalpel, several stitching needles, some sort of thread, and a few other things he couldn't name. He took a minute and a deep breath to take in his surroundings, as he tried to figure out where the hell he was. The bed squeaked beneath him, and pain coursed through his body when then he tried to move. The adrenaline of whatever happened on the SM-13 had faded away and his injuries became more noticeable. His breathing was a little shallow, and his memories were very fuzzy, probably from hitting his head so many times.
Before he could recall anything else, The circular door shuffled open. A man walked through who was a little taller than Simon, with messy blonde hair, a ruffled beard, and glasses. He looked around the same age as him, and he had broad shoulders and a shirt with something about racehorses. He looked genuinely startled to see him, and a wave of surprise spread across his face.
"Uh, hey! You're actually alive! Oh my God, I didn't think you would… uh, anyways, you banged yourself up prett-y bad in your little uh, submarine." He said with a nervous smile and a twirl of his pointer finger.
"Do you speak English?"
He nodded, keeping his eyes on the man. He stepped closer and started explaining himself like he had been rehearsing it. "I'm Doctor Ryland Grace, but just call me Grace. a friend of mine and I found your little submarine ship sending out radio frequencies from the moon orbiting Adrian, and we found you and pulled you out. You barely seemed alive, but we managed to fix you up a little. You're fresh out of an arm, and I tried to stitch it up, but you've got several other injuries that I think will only get better with rest. Just take it easy, would you? You've been out for a while now."
He crossed his arms and examined Simon's face for a reaction, to no avail. "Well uh, what's your name?"
He shuddered a little at that.
"Uh, it's-" -he paused, his voice coming out weakly, "It's Simon. I... Am I dead? Are you just my mind fucking with me?" He added, coughing a little blood on the plastic mask that left a burning taste on his tongue.
"Uh, no. You're alive. I'm not your imagination or, uh, I'm glad to meet you, Simon." The stranger assured him with a nervous confidence in his voice, adjusting his crooked glasses. He almost felt wary to trust this man, but he didn't really have anything to lose, did he? His head still throbbed, and he was desperate for, anything really. He didn't have the energy to be critical. Fuck, his body hurt.
"Well, not a lot of people would go through that effort." His voice cracked a little, still confused. He tried once again to lift his head up off his pillow, and was able to look Grace in the eyes more clearly. The look of pain in his eyes must have been apparent, because Grace jumped up and pointed a finger at him. "Real quick though, could you tell me what you could have possibly been doing on that ship, nearly drowning yourself in an ocean of blood? And how are you out here?" Simon grimaced a little, as Grace turned around and started rifling through several crates.
"You're not with the C.O.I., are you?"
"Uh, no. I'm with NASA." The man gestured to a patch on his orange jumpsuit, the upper half of which was tied around his waist.
"Well, I don't know if any of this is real anymore, but uh, There were fuckin' monsters that were trying to eat me or something, and I-I think I got a concussion, and I hallucinated some wild shit I think, and I thought I died, and uh, there was this box I needed to- tell me you got the box!" He lifted his elbow up, and winced with discomfort in an effort to haul himself off of the bed. "Hey wait, don't worry I got your box! I told you to take it easy! " Grace insisted, and Simon collapsed back onto the bed. Grace gave Simon a weird look and started fiddling with a metal hook stand next to the bed, unhooking an empty clear rectangular bag from it and replacing it with another bag, filled with some sort of clear liquid. He noticed the tube going from the bag to his arm, and the liquid pouring itself through the needle and into his veins. His muscles untensed, and his pain slowly ebbed away to a sort of sleepy, numb sensation. He rested his head back on the pillow, sighing and closing his eyes. He'd done what he needed to do. He just needed to get the box back, and maybe it would help. Maybe he could take back what he's done, maybe someone would think of him as someone to care about, maybe he could atone for the awful things he'd done. God, he wished.
The man folded his hands together, and nervously rolled his heels back and forth from a few steps away.
"I would love to ask you some more questions, but you need to rest more. I'm sure you're tired and exhausted. Glad we pulled you out when we did, if we were a few minutes late you might not have made it. I need to let you rest though!" He impatiently waved his hand, rambling to himself.
This was really fuckin' weird.
How was he alive? He remembered dying. Oh, he felt like crying, shouting, something, but he didn't even have the energy for that.
The man looked longingly at him, before backing up towards the door, stumbling and saying something about good dreams.
The light in the room dimmed, and the door shut gently behind him, leaving Simon alone in the room again.
God, this was weird. Who was he? This entire room looked too nice and he'd never heard of anywhere or anyone called NASA. Maybe he was right about other people being out there. Either way, he was grateful for that man. He was probably alive somehow, if this wasn't the afterlife or a hallucination, but he wasn't sure how. He'd been through enough shit to be a little weary of whatever was going on. At least he didn't have that voice in his head, telling him to give up and go towards the light or Ava telling him to get the box back. Oh God, Ava was dead. She was dead because of him. He'd dragged her down with him too, in his pathetic desperation. The thought of it shook him suddenly and made guilt form in his chest, and he felt like puking. And that guy, Jack, and probably the other guy in the hangar. They were probably dead too, because of him.
He hasn't changed at all, they were right. His hands were covered in blood.
Suddenly hot tears welled in his eyes, and they gently rolled down the sides of his face. He quietly sobbed, trying to muffle the sound. Exhaustion overtook him quickly, and he faded out of consciousness again.