Carpe Diem

Orbiting around a distant but reachable moon is a small container vessel.

If the Eridians had found it years ago, the retrieval team would have succumbed to radiation poisoning on their journey home.

Thankfully, Erid's top scientists had recently helped usher in a new understanding of the deadly emission and were able to decontaminate the vessel before transporting it closer to Erid for observation.

This observation would be led by Erid's singular human inhabitant, Doctor Ryland Grace.

***

Simon's first conscious sensation is a fullness in his throat. He gags, goes to cover his mouth with the back of his hand on instinct, and feels the rubbery material of a tube instead. He follows it past his lips, and when an experimental tug does nothing to remove it, he realizes with a horrified swoop of his stomach that it's inside him.

His breath quickens, and he forces himself to breathe through his nose as he fumbles to get a good grip on the thing with the only hand that’s listening.

He pulls- ignoring the sharp tugs of pain as he works it out of his mouth in a series of jerky, uneven motions. He takes a shuddering breath when it's finally out and tosses it to the floor.

His stomach rolls, and Simon struggles to pull himself upright just enough to lean off the side of his prison cot and vomit.

It's painful, tensing every muscle in his wounded body as he heaves and tries to breathe through it all.

When it's over, he collapses onto his back, head spinning and stomach burning as he takes greedy heaves of air, registering the distinct taste of metal on his lips.

Blood.

He coughs, spits, and swipes the palm of his hand across his face, pulling away a stream of red.

The too-bright lights and the too-pristine walls flicker, replaced with the cold, rusted interior of the SM-13. He closes his eyes tightly, fisting the material of his pants and forcing himself to breathe- but he can't goddamnit! He can't breathe.

He's trapped. He's never getting out- he will die right here, bleeding from the inside- blood swallowing him, melting his skin, twisting his bones, consuming his memories until he is nothing more than another drop in the blood ocean, another brother. A son of Eden joining the grove, but far from the last.

Something cold and mechanical wraps around Simon's wrist and pulls. He doesn't have enough strength to fight it, he realizes, but he tries anyway. He tugs at the trap as hard as he can, kicking with sore, stubborn legs.

"Armando release! He's going to dislocate that shoulder!"

The clasp is gone in an instant, and Simon drags his broken body back, against the prison wall, the SM-13, the strange white room.

"You’re awake!"

Fuck- fuck. There are people here. C.O.I.

"Stay away from me!" His voice is raw and half rasp- more like a beast than a person.

The silhouette approaches. Did they just put their hands up? Raise a weapon?

"We speak the same language! Oh, this is incredible -" The man- he thinks - sounds excited, even desperate. It makes Simon's skin crawl because he doesn't understand why.

Everyone this side of Eden speaks their language.

He wishes he could get a good look at the man's face, try and decipher his words- his intentions- but he can barely tell if the room is straight or spinning.

"Man, I have so many questions."

Simon can't see- the shapes are all blurring together- The colors don't align.

"Ah! Sorry, those can wait until you're feeling better-" he winces, gaze flickering to the pool of blood. “I really thought you'd be unconscious for a few more days. Let’s hope that didn’t damage your throat too badly- I’m so sorry I didn't get here in time to help. Getting those tubes out on your own sucks."

It's all rust. red. red. red.

“Don’t be too worried about the blood- It’s not internal bleeding just…-Oh that doesn't matter right now, sorry, I'm rambling- what's important is that you're safe and mostly stable. Now sit tight, We just need to check your-"

The man takes a step closer.

"GET BACK!" Simon chokes.

And to his surprise, the man stops his approach, then takes several steps away. He plants his feet and raises his arms a little higher in surrender, even though Simon is unarmed.

Maybe he does know who he is after all- maybe he recognizes The Butcher.

"Okay- Yeah, that's- Yeah. I'll stay right here, no problemo."

Fuck, breathing- hurts. Everything hurts, but breathing hurts. Like every inhale is done through broken glass. He can't get the air to stay in his lungs either- it's all ragged and uneven. Simon is shaking, his hair is crusted with dried blood, his back drenched in sweat. He realizes he's naked from the waist up.

He must look completely pathetic. He feels hot- uncoordinated and nothing makes sense.

Maybe that's why the man seemed so calm in comparison. He must know Simon is in no shape to fight back. His head reels as he tries to remember if the C.O.I ever put their prisoners through the Realization program twice if they survived.

"No-" His breath falters, sweeping out of his lungs all at once. "I can't- No I can't I won't-"

"Hey-"

"NO!" Simon yells, "No I did everything you told me-"

"Whoa- wait a second-"

"I went to HELL for you people- you can't- punish me for surviving it- I brought you the stupid box- You- Can't- I CAN'T- Please!

"It's okay-!"

Simon flinches, violently, pressing himself deeper into the corner. He needs a weapon, now- but there's nothing. He can hardly see through the blinding all-encompassing panic.

"No." he moans, despite it all, "Fuck you- fuck. you. God- Oh God- Please don't make me go back-"

Squeezing his eyes shut- shame swirling in his stomach at the pathetic mess of it all.

"Sorry-" The man half whispers, like he's speaking to a small, frightened child. Like he's mocking Simon. "I'm sorry- I really don't know what you're talking about-"

Simon bites the inside of his cheek- hard. Trying to hold back tears that had formed in his eyes. Why does this man torment him further.

“Just- okay, everything is okay. What do you mean by “went to hell?” Where exactly did you come from?“

Simon falters at the questions. He's shaking now- unable to make himself talk about it anymore and unable to make himself keep begging. He would fight if he had to- he would kill this man if he got closer.

An image of a blood red eye, as large as The Last Tree flashes in his mind.

"Never mind.” the man says suddenly, “We will have plenty of time to talk later. For now, let me help you-"

"I don't fucking want your help." Simon bites.

"Why not?”

”Because you won’t! You can’t!”

"Maybe I can? I’ve fixed worse." He says that last part almost as if it's a joke, and then winces as if in pain. "Ugh, I'm sorry that wasn’t funny and- this is probably so confusing. I'm a terrible conversationalist, worse now than ever." He shakes his head, "Okay, let’s start over. My name is Ryland Grace, and I haven't seen another human in a very long time."

Grace.

Maybe he was an independent then?

"Please believe me when I say, I don't want to scare you-" 'Grace' rambles, his words muffled through the panic- through Simon's harsh breathing. "And I really, really don't want to hurt you."

"Then go away-" Simon says.

He needs a weapon. His cooperative arm pats the area around him, reaching for something, anything, but everything around Simon is soft. So fucking soft and strange.

"I would but- I think you pulled some stitches, you're bleeding again, and another infection could kill-"

"-Fuck off!"

Grace pauses for a moment, and Simon stiffens. Perhaps he finally had enough.

"Right. Well, sure, but can you do me a little favor first?"

Simon stares, chest heaving. “W-what?”

"Just- try to take a deep breath. Can you do that? I really don't want you passing out."

What?

It catches Simon off guard, and he opens his eyes. His vision is still pretty fucked, but the red had seeped away, leaving that far too clean room in its place.

Where the actual fuck is he?

The man stands with his hands up, and Simon makes out a few blurry details. Messy sandy hair, crooked glasses, and an ill fitted sweater, white with orange designs. It was absolutely violating any and all uniform codes.

He doesn't look like a member of the C.O.I. And he certainly isn't anyone from Eden. his expression is soft, and curious, but Simon can't really hold onto his features.

"Good- great job."

There's a clean, warm light from a corridor behind the man, framing him like something holy. Grace.

Simon swallows, tastes blood, and remembers the pool of bloody vomit he'd left on the floor in a wave of humiliation.

"Can I come a little closer?"

"No." Simon manages. He's feeling- incredibly drained all of a sudden- he wants to close his eyes, fall forward, and collapse. And why shouldn’t he? It doesn't matter what he says to this man. Whatever his fate was now, it was predetermined.

"That's okay." The man replies, "I'll stay right here."

Is he actually listening? What the fuck.

"Could you look down for me?"

Simon glances and sees a mess of bandages wrapped around his midsection. There's a spot to the right of his stomach, where blood is slowly soaking the crisp white material.

"Your injuries were treatable but major. You've already lost a lot of blood and can't really afford to lose much more. Hate to say, I'm not exactly a universal donor either."

A memory comes to him- from the bottom of the blood ocean, the hull cracking and breaking, red leaking down the rusty walls. He was on the verge of death- wasn't he? How is this possible? How is he alive?

Simon casts his eyes over at the man who's observing him. How much medical supplies were used on him? Surely a lot considering he was one foot in the grove. How much would he owe after all this?

He feels sick staring at the seeping wound, but it still takes a lot of effort to pull his gaze away. He closes his eyes again and leans his hot temple against the cool wall.

He can't help but mumble a few prayers under his breath, feeling the man's nervous energy from across the room as he shuffles from foot to foot.

"I'm not a medical doctor." Grace says, eventually, "But I have a buddy for all that stuff, his name is Armando."

Simon stares at him as he shrugs.

"He's a self-automated medicinal bionic. So, 'Robot Doctor', if you want to be short about it. He's the one who stitched you up, gave you all the good fluids and kept you alive. And, if it makes you feel better, I've been a satisfied patient myself many-a-time."

Grace jerks his head towards a machine connected to Simon's cot. He stares at it, tracing the curve of its steel arm and the fingers of its synthetic hand.

His chest aches, thumping along with the beat of his heart painfully. 

“Am I dying?” He manages and hates how small his voice sounds. 

The man shakes his head, “No- but your odds are going down the more blood you lose- I’m sorry but you are going to have let me help you.”

There's a feeling growing as the wetness of his own blood soaks the bare skin below his bandages, and then even lower to the hem of his shorts.

It’s a familiar desperation that sits in him, clawing and gnawing and crying out. He wants to live.

"Why-" he rasps. "Why are you doing this?"

"I want to help." Grace offers lamely. Simon doesn’t believe him.

"I'll kill myself." He bluffs, "If you try and put me back in that hellhole, I'll kill myself the second the doors are welded shut."

The man's breath hitches in his throat, there's a long drawl of silence that makes Simon's head pound.

"I'm not going to put you anywhere you don't want to be."

"I don't have anything to give you."

Grace fixes him with a look too obscured by Simon's fucked vision to make out properly.

"I can't repay you." He tries.

"Hey- that's okay. I don't need to be repaid."

Simon scoffs, aware of the way his head starts to feel further away from his shoulders every moment that ticks by.

"Then what... do you want?" He manages.

"I want you to live." Grace breathes. "God, I just want you to live."

It’s strange. Simon hadn't realized how badly he wanted to hear someone say those words to him until this man had. His chest tightens so firmly around his heart he thinks he may bleed out after all.

Whatever kind of sick fucking game this is- he is losing it, badly. Resignation weighs in his chest pulling him away from consciousness.

He fights it a little longer, trying to keep his eyes open as the figure blurs and shifts in front of him but doesn't come any closer. Just like Simon had asked.

A hot wet tear rolls down his cheek as he loses the battle.