Chapter Text
When Simon wakes, it is to bright lights and impossibly loud music.
You must understand, then, that the first thought Simon had was that he must be in heaven.
His second thought was more along the lines of “holy shit, ow.”
Luckily, he was only afforded a scant few seconds of excruciating pain before promptly passing back out.
Simon's second go-around at being conscious went slightly better.
The lights had been dimmed considerably, and while he could still hear strange music coming from somewhere, it was much less deafening. There's a soft, rhythmic beeping coming from somewhere.
He spends a solid minute or two simply staring at nothing. Eventually his brain boots up enough to first register that the ceiling is a dull grey metal, and secondly to realise that he is probably not in heaven.
Unless ‘father’ had lied severely about the nature of the afterlife, this probably wasn't it. For one, they always said that heaven was a good place, without pain. And Simon was certainly in quite a bit of pain.
No. He was probably not in heaven. The much, much more likely explanation was that the COI had somehow gotten him back.
Simon would have very much preferred heaven.
He's lying down on something. It's surprisingly soft– a lot softer than the cot in his cell. He's probably in the hospital wing then. He can't really feel any of his limbs, aside from the ever-present pain that seems to be radiating from generally fucking everywhere. That's mildly concerning. His thoughts feel sluggish. He's either sedated, or dying.
Simon doesn't want to be dying. Dying once was bad enough, he really hopes he doesn't have to do it again.
Simon makes a valiant attempt to turn his head, and at least get a look at his surroundings. His efforts reward him with a sharp pain, as he turns to look directly into a blindingly bright light. Simon squeezes his eyes shut, turning away. Ow. The room blurs around him. There's an IV stand set up next to him. He can make that out. He traces the line with his eyes to where a needle is inserted into his inner elbow.
Panic spikes his heart rate. He looks at his other arm and it's-
Fuck, it's gone.
Simon can't breathe. He might throw up. He needs to leave.
The beeping is louder. It's getting faster. He's scared. Everything is so loud.
He tries to lever himself up, get his arm close enough to his mouth that he can make an attempt at tearing out the IV.
The music is getting louder. It's high pitched and cacophonous.
Simon's arm shakes when he tries to lift it. He tries to kick the sheet off but his leg barely moves. His head feels fuzzy. He's terrified. Something is screaming.
His heart is beating so hard he's afraid it's going to rip right through his chest. Tear through his sternum and leave a gaping, bloody hole.
He doesn't want to die. He's scared.
Oh god.
He doesn't want to die.
The room is quiet this time.
It's nice.
The music is gone, and so are the bright lights. Something illuminates the room with a soft glow, just bright enough for Simon to see by.
He's in a lot less pain too, which is good.
His legs ache when he stretches them out- but it's a bearable ache. Simon can push through it.
The IV line is still in his arm. It looks like it's been secured with several more pieces of tape up his forearm. He traces the line up to the IV stand. There are two bags hanging- the one connected to his arm has a slightly opaque milky white fluid in it. Hopefully it's just… vitamins or some shit. He's pretty sure he was sedated when he tried to rip the line out. His memories are blurry at the edges.
It's… not ideal, but he won't try again. That shit obviously isn't going to kill him, or he'd be dead by now. Besides, there are a lot of much easier ways to kill people.
The only other thing on his arm is a small device stuck to one of his fingers. It's also taped down. A wire connects it to the heart rate monitor. That's probably what caused the shrieking sound when he started flipping out. He must have dislodged the monitor and ‘flatlined.’ He's guessing the big number with the graph is his heart rate. There are a bunch of smaller numbers too, but he has no idea what those correlate to. It's not beeping anymore though, which is nice. Someone must have muted it.
There's something stuck to his face, too. Another tube. He's guessing that's what the second bag is connected to. That bag is larger, and filled with a watery beige substance. It looks like the nutrient slurry he would sometimes receive as a ration, if it were watered-down.
There are a few more tubes he can feel in… other places. He's pretty sure he knows what those are for.
Simon tries to lever himself up, to get a better look around. There is a brief moment of surprise, when his left arm fails to support his weight, quickly followed by Simon falling back onto the bed. Red-hot pain lances through his left shoulder, and he can't bite back a choked gasp.
Right. His arm. That happened.
He doesn't want to look. He remembers well enough. The blinding pain and the nauseating sound of tendon and muscle tearing. He remembers how it almost felt too easy, like there was barely anything holding him together in the first place.
He doesn't want to remember. He doesn't want to look.
The COI doesn't have enough resources to keep amputees alive. The survival rate on Eden was less than 30%. Simon can't imagine they would waste precious antibiotics on him.
He has to look. At least he'll know how bad it is. At least he'll know how much time he has.
His stomach churns as he turns his head. Just look. Just get it over with. Stop being such a pussy.
Oh. Huh.
What the fuck? Is his first thought. That doesn't make any sense. Is his second.
Simon's arm is bandaged. That's not much of a surprise. But the bandages are clean. They look fresh, and sterile. And they're still pure white. There's no blood seeping through, even after he agitated the wound. The bandages disappear into the sleeve of the papery clothing he's dressed in.
Hesitantly, Simon lifts his right arm, and lifts up the sleeve hiding his arm. The bandages stop neatly a few inches below his armpit. He has to crane his neck, but he can't see anything outwardly wrong with the exposed skin. It looks healthy. He prods at his arm, and doesn't receive the flare of excruciating pain he'd expected. It hurts, but it's the same diffuse soreness that covers the rest of his body. Poking around the stump of his arm does reward him with a fare of pain, so his nerves are probably still working.
Simon thinks he might be in shock. Or something shock-adjacent.
His arm is gone. Obviously. Even the most skilled surgeons with unlimited supplies probably couldn't reattach it after that. But his impromptu-amputation probably won't kill him.
Fuck. He might actually survive.
At some point, around when his priorities shifted to get the black box, Simon had kind of realised the fact that he was absolutely going to die.
He's crying, Simon realizes.
He remembers the jaws of the eel closing around him. The deafening crunching of the sub as the walls folded under unimaginable pressure. He remembers his lungs filling with blood.
There are only two possibilities.
Either none of that was real.
Or this isn't.
It's quiet again. Simon doesn't remember falling back asleep.
The room has changed again.
His bed has been adjusted for him to be sitting up. The white sheet draped over him has been replaced by a colorful blanket. It's golden yellow– the only spot of color in the grey room. Simon tugs it up to cover more of him, before running his fingers over its hem. It’s soft, and beginning to go threadbare.
It's nice. The room is warm enough, but it's still comforting.
The IV bags and monitor to his right are the same, but they've been joined by a low table. There's a lone cup sitting atop it.
Now that he's not freaking out or otherwise distracted, Simon takes the opportunity to properly look around the room. There really isn't much to see. There's a single door, without a handle. There's a keypad beside it, which he assumes is used to open and close the door. It's weirdly close to the ground, despite the door itself being at a regular height. Like it was designed for children to operate.
There's a rectangle set into the wall next to the door, covered with metal shutters. It's probably a window. He's starting to notice that everything in the room is made up of the same grey-gold material.
Oddly enough, there's a single lamp in the corner, complete with lampshade. It's the only light source in the room, emitting a soft yellow glow. He looks towards the ceiling, and as expected, there are several panels of lights. That must have been what was blinding him the first few times he woke up. The only other thing in the ceiling is a rectangular seam, right above his bed. It looks like some kind of door, or hatch, which is a little scary.
His exploration is interrupted by a soft tap-tap coming from somewhere to his left. Simon whips his head around to locate the source.
There's nobody there. Just a blank grey wall. His eyes dart around as he pushes himself up into sitting the best he can with one arm. It causes pain to spike through his sore muscles, but he powers through.
“Apology. Did not mean to frighten. Please do not injure self.”
Simon looks up, at where the voice is coming from. There's a speaker mounted near the ceiling.
Simon feels faintly nauseous.
“Who-” His voice comes out raspy, and he dissolves into a fit of coughing.
“Please do not injure self. There is water.”
Simon takes a second to contemplate the cup, before deciding, screw it, and taking a sip. If they wanted to kill him they could've done it while he was asleep. Poisoning his water just seems stupid.
“Who-” He clears his throat and tries again. “Who are you? Where am I?”
“Apology. Know you must have many questions. Cannot answer all right now. I am in charge of speaking to you. You are in hospital.”
The voice is monotone, and the speaker gives it a tinny quality. It sounds computer generated. Whoever's on the other end isn't using their real voice. The broken grammar and simple sentence structure is eerie. It activates some kind of primal unease in Simon.
“What station am I on?” His voice rasps when he speaks. It hurts. “How the fuck did you get me out of the ocean?”
“Um. Apologies. Cannot answer question. Did not find in ocean.”
What the fuck?
“Where the hell did you find me then?”
“Um.”
Holy shit this guy is useless. His unease is only growing. Why the hell won't they just answer?
“Can you tell me anything?” Anger bleeds into Simon's voice. He has the right to be a bit irritated, he thinks.
“Yes. Apologies. Left arm had to be amputated. Many many injuries. Healing very well–”
“No shit my arm is missing!” He interrupts. Simon is very quickly losing patience with the mystery voice. “Can you tell me anything useful? Why am I here? Why did you save me? What the fuck else could you possibly want from me?” His voice cracks on the yell. Damn it his throat hurts.
He downs his last sip of water, before throwing the empty cup at the speaker. It falls unsatisfyingly short with a dull clatter.
The speaker stays silent.
“Damn it.” He whispers to himself. “Fuck.”
He's tired. His arm is shaking. He's glad the monitor was taped on, because the throw definitely would have dislodged it. He doesn't want to be sedated again.
The anger bleeds out of him. Why the fuck did he do that? That voice was the only avenue of communication he had, and now he's probably pissed them off.
Simon leans back into the bed, turning onto his side and tugging the blanket up under his chin.
He hates this.
He doesn't know where he is. He has no goddamn clue how he got here. By all accounts, it should be impossible for him to be here. It should be impossible for him to be anywhere. He should be dead.
He's scared.
The COI would have no reason to hide information from him. And he sure as shit hasn't been rescued by Eden.
All he knows is that he's in an impossible bed, with impossible medical supplies, in an impossible room with an impossible fucking speaker.
A speaker that talks to him.
Yeah. He can connect the dots.
Fuck.
When Simon wakes, there is a fresh cup of water on the table, next to a larger bottle. The empty cup on the floor is gone.
“Apologies. No food yet. Working on it.”
Simon ignores the voice. He looks into the cup, trying to catch a glimpse of his reflection. The room is too dim to make out any detail.
He's in less pain now. He wonders how often he wakes up. Once a day? Every week? He has no idea.
“Any requests, can get for you. To make more comfortable.”
“Can I request that you answer my questions?”
“Apologies. Questions are difficult. No good answers. Do not want to frighten.”
“Yeah.” Simon sighs. “Of course.”
Right now, his working theory is that he's dead.
Maybe because the eel killed him, he doesn't get to go to heaven. Maybe he's with everyone who disappeared in the quiet rapture. Maybe his voice will whisper to the next poor bastard they send down.
“What is name?”
“You know my name.”
“Do not know name. What is name? Clarification– your name.”
“Can you stop?”
“Apologies. Do not understand.”
Simon groans. He's angry and terrified and in pain, but he's mostly just exhausted.
“You know what. I'll tell you my name if you show me your face, okay?” He snaps. “Just prove there's a person behind there.”
The voice goes quiet. Of-fucking-course.
Simon stares down into the cup. He's so tired.
“Okay.”
What?
“What?”
“Okay. Next time you wake up. Will talk in person. This way of communication doing more harm than expected.”
Oh. He hadn't really expected them to agree so easily. He'd already been preparing himself to argue.
“Um. Okay.” Simon feels a bit off balance. “Thank you.”
He takes slow sips of water, draining the cup before lowering it again. The strange warm-toned metal the cup is made out of is strangely light. Aluminum?
“Apology. Cannot give more water.”
That's expected. Water has always been rationed. Not as strictly as food, due to the recyclers, but they could only work so quickly. The system wasn't far from perfect. Eden and the COI’s water both had a stale, metallic taste.
The water here was so much better. It barely tasted like anything. Is that what pure water is supposed to taste like?
Their recyclers must be in much better shape. Everything must be better, if they have enough space to waste a bed and medical supplies on him.
Another point to the “this is all a trick” theory.
But god, even if it is a trick, is that so bad?
There's clean water here. And a bed with soft blankets. All his wounds are wrapped. He's warm. The voice that speaks to him is avoidant, but kind.
Simon feels kind of bad for snapping at them now. They've been very kind. Even if they are just some kind of crazy hallucination, he should probably try to be more polite.
Simon sets the cup down on the side table. He moves to fold his hands over his lap, before stopping as his right hand meets empty air. Oh. That's right. He can't clasp his hands together anymore. The realization is a bit upsetting. Instead, he settles for twisting the blanket between his fingers.
He clears his throat awkwardly. “Um. I don't need more water. It's okay.”
“Good, good. Should rest. Body needs time to heal.”
He's been doing nothing but resting, hasn't he? His sense of time is all messed up, but he's pretty sure he was sleeping for a really long time.
“How long was I sleeping?”
“Since last wake? Ten hours. Expect you to wake up after next standard sleep period of ten hours.”
Okay. Ten hours is a lot. As far as he could remember he'd always slept for five hours a night. Hopefully he'll be sleeping less once he's fully healed. He hates the idea of being vulnerable for ten hours. The knowledge that someone had to have come into the room while he was sleeping in order to refill his water made Simon's skin crawl.
Simon must have been making a face, because the voice adds, “Apology. Is not ideal. Will need to rest less when healed more.”
That's freaky. They can see him somehow. He furrows his brow harder, scanning the room. He definitely doesn't see a camera anywhere. Maybe there's a tiny one attached to the microphone? Or hidden in the wall somehow?
“Are you watching me?” Simon asks, turning towards the microphone. “Right now. Can you see me?”
“Yes. Are watching. Apology if makes uncomfortable. Must make sure patient is okay. Monitoring for health.”
“Well it does make me uncomfortable.” Simon tugs the blanket up to cover more of him. He feels slightly nauseous. “Can you quit it?”
“Apology. Is necessary. Can try to pay less attention.
“Okay well. Do that.”
“Yes. Will do.”
Simon huffs, turning away from the microphone. He has no idea how someone can ‘pay less attention’ to spying on him, but it's probably the best he's going to get.
He doesn't really want to argue anyways. He's sick of fighting.
“Please rest now. Will talk when wake up. Promise.”
Simon doesn't want to do what the voice says, just on principle, but he is tired.
“Fine.” Simon lies back into the bed, turning onto his side and cradling his head with his arm. “Goodnight, I guess.”
“Good Night.”
It's been a while.
Simon's sitting up, sipping his daily cup of water. His eyes are trained on the window.
It's open now. A large, rectangular sheet of what he assumes is glass. Behind it is pure darkness. The dim light from his room doesn't reach far enough to illuminate anything besides a small patch of floor.
He'd woken up maybe an hour ago? He's not entirely sure. A clock would be nice. The voice had told him to wait, so he's been waiting.
He misses his left hand.
It's hard. Adjusting to a missing limb. He's barely done more than lie here since he'd woken up in this place, but he feels the loss acutely. How much function has he lost? How many things will he never be able to do again?
His pendant was wrapped around that wrist. He'll probably never see it again. His last reminder of what used to be home, lost to the blood ocean forever.
Simon knows Eden was awful. He's well aware they were a cult. But it was still his childhood home. That's hard to let go of.
He's snapped out of his thoughts by movement in the window.
It's nothing but a miniscule shift in the darkness, but Simon had been trained to be aware of movement. Is this the voice?
“Okay. I am behind window. Warning that appearance may be scary.”
The robotic voice speaks, but now Simon can hear something else faintly underlying it, coming from the window. It sounds like musical notes.
Simon can't deny that he's nervous. Scared. All signs point to the voice not being human, somehow. That would pretty much be all the confirmation he needs that this is some blood-induced hallucination.
“It's fine.” Simon sets down his cup, eyes never leaving the window. “Come out.”
The shifting figure steps into the light.
Huh.
It's a rock.
Simon was preparing himself for a bloody, shifting mass of limbs. Or pale flesh vaguely distorted into a human shape. Something akin to the flashes of the eel he'd seen.
They are nothing like that.
They're honestly the furthest thing from a terrible bloody horror Simon could've imagined.
They're just. A rock. A rock with legs. Rock legs. Five of them, maybe? They look like they're maybe three feet tall, a dark brown with splotches of green at the joints.
They look nothing like the rocks from the blood ocean either. Those were all sharp, jagged, bone-white calcium formations. They look more like a stone Simon could have seen on Mars.
What the fuck?
“Okay? Have not moved in long time.” The rock says, shifting a bit. The musical notes line up with their words.
Holy shit is that their voice? That would make sense. The computer-voice must be some sort of translator.
“Um.” Simon says, a bit dumbly. “I'm okay. Why are you a rock?”
They tilt backwards, raising their.. head? They almost look offended.
“I mean uh.” Simon hurries to correct. “There's nothing… wrong with being a rock.” This is so surreal.
“Understand question. Am not human. Obviously.”
Simon thinks that was meant to be a joke.
“Wanted to keep secret little longer. Less stress for you. Plan was bad. Apology.”
They hunch down on themself. It looks exaggerated, like they're making sure he understands.
“It's… fine.” Simon responds. “You uh, did your best?”
He's probably being overly cautious. He doesn't want to offend them again.
“Yes. Try very hard to keep you alive. Will you tell name now? Made deal.”
Oh yeah. He did say that, huh. It's still confusing. The eel knew his name. Whatever otherworldly force was done in that ocean knew everything about him. So why are they pretending? To try and make him more comfortable?
His head hurts. He's not smart enough to figure all this out. Whatever. Fine. He'll go along with it.
“Simon.”
“Is name? Yes?”
“Yeah, that's my name.”
“Good! Very good! Thank!”
The little rock lifts up the two arms facing him, and shakes their “hands” in the air. What?
“Apology cannot use name yet. Must be added to translator.” They seem very excited about all this. “Can talk later, question? Figure out word for you name in my language.”
“Sure.”
He was right, they are using a translator. They had similar tech on Eden, though it was mostly obsolete. Everyone had to be able to speak English to be eligible to live on a station.
“Do you have a name?” Simon asks. It feels disrespectful to keep calling them “the rock” in his head.
“Yes! Yes! Forgot! Apology! Name is Rocky!”
They hold their two front arms together. Combined, Simon can see some sort of pattern etched onto them. But the light is too dim and they are too far for him to see any detail.
“Rocky?” He echoes. “That's… creative.”
“Is not exact translation of name. I did not come up with. Blame Grace.”
Grace?
“Who’s Grace?”
Rocky suddenly looks nervous. Like they hadn't meant to let that information slip. It's the only other name they'd mentioned so far. The only meaningful info Simon hadn't had to press for. And it sounds like they had given Rocky their English name? So is Grace human? If they are, then why is Rocky here and not her?
“Did not…” Rocky fiddles with their hands. “Grace is best friend. Human. Like you.”
“Are there any other humans?”
“No. Just you. And Grace.”
“Okay.”
Rocky's being freer with information. He guesses they've learned that withholding will only make Simon freak out.
“Why isn't Grace here?”
“Grace is…” Rocky makes a few chirping noises that don't get translated. They stomp their arm into the ground. Simon thinks they look frustrated. “Translator not good. Not enough words. Apology. Have to think.”
“It's okay. I'm not going anywhere.”
Simon's apprehension has faded a bit. Rocky clearly doesn't want to hurt him. That's the big thing. He's not in danger right now. Nothing makes any sense at all, but at least nobody is trying to kill him. It's a step up from the ocean, at least.
He doesn't even know what to assume anymore. The hallucination theory is most prevalent, but some things still don't make sense. If all this is crafted by the blood ocean, why is there so much bullshit? But that still makes the most sense, as opposed to..
As opposed to what? This being real?
Could this be real?
He folds his arm over his stomach, lying back. “Are you real?”
“What?”
“Are you real?” Simon repeats. “Am I really here? I'm not hallucinating, or dead, or stuck in an ocean of blood?”
“...”
Rocky makes a low chittering noise. It sounds sad.
“Yes. Is real. Not dead. Here.” They pause, as if searching for words. “Do not know what happen to you before. Had many many injuries. Was scary. Worked very hard to heal. Know you are real. Can hear heartbeat. Know you are alive. Apologies. No good words.”
Huh.
Simon brings his hand up to rest on his sternum. He can feel it. His heartbeat.
He can feel the bed beneath him, and the needle in the arm, and the weight of the blanket on his lap. He can feel his lungs expand with every breath, filling with cool, clean air that doesn't smell like blood. He can feel the tear rolling down his cheek as he closes his eyes.
In the sub, the ocean just talked to him. It could fill his head with voices, but it never made him see anything. It never touched him with anything that wasn't physical.
Oh god. This might be real.