Chapter Text
He's annoyed, at first.
There's a small parcel set just-so against his cabin door. It's wrapped in scuffed grey plastic and striped tape, the usual 're-packaged after military inspection' look. His stomach sinks at the sight of it.
What now?
Ryland comes to a stop at his door, his ID card hanging loosely from his hand. He'd just finished up a long, overwhelming day, and there's another long, overwhelming day looming over him tomorrow; he'd just wanted to go to bed.
Sighing, he scans haphazardly into his room, sliding the package in ahead of him with his foot. He leaves it on the floor as he sets his things down, shedding his sweatshirt, kicking off his shoes.
A shower would be nice right now. But that'd involve a trip to the washrooms, a whole endeavour of preparation and awkward interaction. Trying to decide what to do Ryland stands, hands on his hips, grimacing at the idea.
He settles for washing his face in the small basin in the corner of his cabin. He strips the grime and sweat from his skin with generic face wash, pushes some water through his hair for a vague sense of refreshment. Stained, worn-out jeans are exchanged for looser sweatpants, and he digs in a drawer for a fresher-smelling t-shirt.
Half-clean, it's only when he's sitting on the edge of his bed, drained and despondent, that his eyes fall on the package again.
Right, he thinks drearily, back to work.
He assumes it's something lab related. They need to order things fairly often, and one aspect of research labs that hasn't changed from academia to government sanctioned science is the mess that is an ordering system.
For bigger things, equipment and the likes, he can go straight to Stratt to fast-track it. But for the regular stuff - lab consumables, new reagents they want to test - those are ordered through their generic user system, and thus at the mercy of regular delivery issues.
Often, anything with an identifiable relation to biology gets dumped to Ryland to figure out what to do with. The delivery staff know he's important enough to sort it out, but not too important to hound them for being unable to find the intended recipient.
He's the medium sized cog who can cut their rounds a little shorter.
It's useful, sometimes, but other times it's an extra frustration to an already complicated day. More often than not, he's stuck trying to figure out what the heck he's unboxed, and where the heck it's meant to be going.
So that's what he assumes is happening here. Using his foot again, he kicks the box closer to him, picking it up reluctantly.
His eyebrows dip together. It's pretty heavy, for lab consumables.
Intrigued, he rips at the jiffy bag, prying it open enough to slide out a sleek, not-at-all science related box.
His first thought is that at least it's not dry ice - that's a whole pain to dispose of, in and of itself. His second thought, is that it's definitely not lab consumables.
The box is printed with elegant graphics, embossed with sleek, branded lettering.
It's a pair of headphones.
Ryland stares, his brain ticking over sluggishly.
Someone's gotten him headphones.
Except- maybe they're not for him. He turns the box over, picks up the plastic wrap to search for a name. Nothing.
Finally, the pieces click into place. Ryland's hands fall, still holding the box, his wrists resting on his knees.
Stratt's gotten him headphones.
Immediately, it's a mess of responding emotions. Ryland keeps staring at the box, trying to parse through the shifting, swelling uprising of them all. Under his wrist, one of his knees starts to bounce.
Stratt's gotten him headphones. An incredibly expensive pair, at that.
They're a top of the line model - of course they are. He knows because he's done the research himself, read the tech reviews and compared the prices across sites. He'd closed the tabs one by one, the numbers making him wince, the idea disregarded.
With a twisted, unsure sound in his throat, Ryland sets them on the bed beside him. He stands, his feet moving him to pace, his hands returning to his hips.
The familiar heat of embarrassment coils in his stomach. It's a feeling he knows he logically shouldn't be feeling, but it comes all the same: it's a vulnerable, uncontrollable sort of thing.
Stratt had bought these because she'd seen enough of him, to know why he needs them.
Looking at the box again, Ryland comes to a stop. He tries to set his breathing steady, to calm himself back down to something regular.
This doesn't have to be a big deal.
And besides, he thinks slickly, as a bubble of excitement finally works free enough to drift into focus. He's always wanted a pair of these.
Ignoring the shifting sense of something exposed still flickering inside of him, he sits back down, picking up the box. He slides the outer sleeve off, revealing a neat, oval case. Prying it out, he sets the box aside and balances the case on his knees. The zip's heavy and satisfying in his hands as he opens it.
They're impressive, at first glance.
They're handsome, a smooth matte black with subtle hints of flashing metal bevelling. They're folded up, and as Ryland opens them out he savours the sound of high quality materials sliding seamlessly into place.
He grins at them, held in his hands; he doesn't have much in the way of expensive accessories. These are nice.
The contrast of them against his cluttered room and worn-out sweatpants doesn't escape him, and he stays grinning as he fiddles with the buttons on the side, taking a guess at the power button.
It works, and with a muted start-up noise they turn on. A small blue light blinks softly from the base of them.
They'll need an app installed, Ryland assumes. He looks to the box again, eyeing the jumble of pamphlets and instruction manuals at the bottom of it. He ignores them, for now.
He just wants to know what it feels like.
He slides them on, apprehensive.
Something in his chest feels it first, before he can really register the change to his ears. It's a sudden loss of pressure, an expanding sense of something loosening, something freeing.
It's incredible.
Eyes darting, he dials back in on his hearing. He shifts his legs, rubs his hands on the bed.
Nothing.
Where usually there's the ruffling of fabric, the hum of distant engines, the huff of his breathing - it's just nothing.
There's nothing. It's just quiet.
Stunned, he shuffles to lay back in bed, the lack of ambient sound unbelievable, the scuff of his body moving in the space entirely absent.
He can't believe it.
He lies in bed with his chest expanding far more easily than he's ever known it to, marvelling at the sheer emptiness in his head.
He can't believe it.
It doesn't take long for sleep to start pulling at him, after that. It comes in like a tide, creeping and unstoppable. He only just remembers to reach sideways, to flick off the lights and push himself under the covers.
As he's drifting, one small push of thought keeps making itself known, lapping at his consciousness like a wave at the sand.
This is it, he thinks distantly. This is how the world is meant to sound.