Shamenaess

It’s not a question, and it’s enough of a surprise to get Simon to look up at the window. Trying to hide the tension the words elicit as best he can, but between that and the frustration he’s not sure how well he manages.

The Captain stands on the other side, holding a pad in her hand and staring at him with an unreadable expression. He can’t even imagine what she’s thinking.

The COI was full of rumors about the Children of Eden being cannibals. And he knew that shifters had already been rare before the Quiet Rapture—it was possible he was the only one left. Something he hadn’t shared with anyone since shortly after his mother-

“... Yeah?” His voice is rougher than he expected it to be. But he hadn’t really talked much since he’d been pulled up—shouted some, when they’d dragged him in here, but not much talking. “What about it?”

A strange look crosses her face, scars dragging it into something he’d almost call confusion.

“So… you knew? You were in prison for sixteen years, and not once made an escape attempt.”

“Right. Because being six inches tall and surrounded by assholes who get off on power and want me dead is smart. Besides, where would I even go? Eden- Eden abandoned me.”

They’d done more than that. Sometimes he still wakes up feeling his Brother’s hands around his throat. But she doesn’t need to know that.

She sighs, pinching her nose and looking at something on her pad.

“Okay. Well, there’s… something else. You took almost three hundred pictures, so even with the shielding you should’ve had some symptoms of radiation exposure, but…” A quiet, baffled exhale and a slight lift of her hand as she looks up at him. “Aside from the dehydration and starvation, and your injuries, you… might be the healthiest person on this ship.”

That- 

That didn’t make any sense. He’d been coughing up blood on the way back from the wreck, but now- well, just like she said. Aside from his bruises and scrapes (and the sores on his arms, and a persistent headache), he feels fine.

“So? Maybe I just got lucky.”

The Captain hums noncommittally, glancing back down at her pad for a moment. “No. I don’t think so—not entirely, at least. We exposed some of your blood to a sample of irradiated blood, and somehow it… absorbed the radiation. I don’t know how, but… do you know what this means?”

It means whatever happened below that fucking ocean made him some kind of freak, but he doubts that’s what she meant. “No?”

“You might be able to- to heal radiation exposure. You could save Jack.”

He’s not sure the emotion he’s experiencing has a name. His ears are ringing and his body feels both weightless and impossibly heavy as grey-blue eyes staring at him over a strip of red, blistered skin spark through his mind. He hadn’t meant to hurt anyone, but he’d sentenced a man to a slow, agonizing death regardless. But if he could fix it-

“How.”

A pause. When he glances towards the window she looks almost stunned, lips parted slightly like she’d expected to have to convince him. But she shook it off quickly, returning to a simulacrum of her closed, commanding expression.

“Have you ever…” For one she actually looks uncomfortable. Funny—she seemed perfectly fine sending him off to die, but a simple question is too much.

“Have I ever what.” The frustration he’s feeling leaks into the voice, turning it sharp and acerbic.

The Captain closes her eyes for a moment and takes a breath, looking almost like she’s trying not to strangle him.

Good. The feeling’s mutual.

“Have you ever eaten anyone.”

He’s on his feet before he even realizes it, arm slamming against the window as he glares down at her with fire singing in his veins.

“Ask me that one more fucking time, I swear-” He snarls through gritted teeth, all but shaking from the anger coursing through him. How many fucking times did he have to say they didn’t even have meat on Eden, let alone-

“C- Simon! I meant as a shifter.”

That’s not all that much better.

“No.” The word is spat out like poison, still glaring through the window at her. He was just on the taller side of average for a Martian, but among Terrans he felt like a giant. Standing several inches above almost everyone he’d encountered on the ship, and the Captain was no exception. But if she was intimidated she didn’t show it, staring up at him with nearly as much thinly-veiled vitriol as he felt.

She closes her eyes for a moment, pinching between them as she lets out a sigh.

“Okay. Come with me.” And at that the door unlocks with a click. He flinches slightly at the sound, taking a step back and glancing between her and the handle.

“Just- walk out of here? Just like that?” He’s skeptical—this feels like a trap, but he can’t figure out why. His hand reaches for the handle, hovering in midair as he gives her a narrow-eyed look through the window.

“I could have someone bring cuffs if you’d rather.” A raised eyebrow that doesn’t quite feel like a threat but doesn’t quite feel like a question, either. He shakes his head almost immediately, curling his fingers around the handle and turning it.

The door opens with ease. It’s a strange feeling, after all the pounding and screaming of the past few days.

Simon steps through, feeling strangely unbalanced as he stands in the hallway. Like he’s on an EVA and slipped loose from his tether, floating free in the ghostlit abyss.

“This way.” The Captain speaks, shattering the illusion as she starts down the hall. Just expecting him to follow.

He could run, but where would he go? He’s stuck on the ship, and if there’s a shuttle it’s probably locked down. Just as trapped as he was in that room. So he follows, his long, loping stride quickly eating up the distance between them until he’s caught up with her.

It’s not far, just a few nearly identical doors down the hall. But this one isn’t locked, and through the window he sees the foot of another—occupied—cot and several medical machines pushed up against the walls.

The Captain opens the door, and after a second of hesitation he steps inside.

The man in the cot barely looks like the same one he’d seen before being sent down. He’d been wiry before, with a shock of silver hair hidden under a bandanna despite not looking any older than Simon himself. But now he was barely more than a skeleton, hair thin and fragile and falling out from the radiation.

“Why-” His voice catches in his throat as he turns away from the proof of what he’d done. He takes a second to gather himself, but his voice is still thick with regret when he speaks. “Why did you bring me here? I mean- you said I could heal him, right? What do I need to do?”

She doesn’t respond. For long enough that he turns back towards the door, wondering if she’d left, but no, she’s still standing there, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else.

“If the tests are to be believed, then… He’ll need to be, um. Surrounded by you.”

“The fuck does that mean.” He snaps, but there’s a churning nausea already growing in the pit of his stomach. Dreading the words that he knows will come next.

“It means- it means you’ll need to swallow him.”

Some half-hysterical part of him feels a sense of relief that at least she hadn’t said eat. The rest of him is sick to his stomach and absolutely furious.

“Is this some kind of sick joke? Or- or a hazing ritual? I know what you all think of me, I’m not a fucking idiot. And I’m not a fucking cannibal, either.” Despite the anger, he just sounds exhausted, even to himself. Eight years of accusations weigh on him like heavy iron chains, turning his limbs to lead and sapping the energy to fight them.

“Simon, this isn’t about that, I swear. But you’re the only one who can do anything to help him.” She sounds honest. But she’s lied to him before.

At least this time she called him by name, though.

Fine.

A heavy breath escapes through his nose as he turns towards the cot again.

“And you’re sure this is safe.” A glance up through the window, fingers tapping against his thumb with frantic energy. The body—don’t call it a body, he’s still alive; for now—on the medical cot is pale and gaunt, his slow, raspy breaths the only sign of life.

“It’s safer than the alternative.” She hadn’t said shit about an alternative.

Probably because she’s trying to goad you into proving those Consolidation bastards right, a familiar voice whispers in the back of his head. One he’s been hearing long before he was sent down in a would-be metal coffin.

“Alternative? What, uh- what alternative.” A heavy sigh, her hand coming up to rub at her brow as he watches.

“Either you do… this, or we give him a blood transfusion from you. But with everything else going on, that seems like an unnecessary risk.” She gestures as she talks, before fixing him with a look that feels uncomfortably like she’s pleading with him.

She’s right, he doesn’t want to risk exposing anyone else to whatever the fuck the ocean did to him. It’s probably in his blood, with everything else it did. But that didn’t mean he was all too enthusiastic about this, either.

“I thought you said you wanted to make amends.”

He tenses, jaw tightening and hands curling into fists as he lets out a sharp breath. 

“And I thought you said I’d be free once I brought the black box back. But I’m still locked up.”

“That’s not-” She sighs, frustration clear in her tone. “You were in medical quarantine. We needed to be sure it would be safe for you to be around us, and vice versa. With how much radiation you were exposed to, it should have decimated your immune system. Not to mention-”

“Call it whatever you want, the result is the same. I’m still locked in a cell.”

Granted, it was a much nicer one than he was used to—had an actual cot, instead of just a thin mattress on the floor, with a blanket and a pillow.

“Look. I can’t physically force you to do this, but if you don’t then either we give him your blood, or he’ll be dead within two weeks. Please.” The Captain’s mask slips, and for a moment he hears Ava again. Exhausted and desperate, begging him to save the life of someone she cares about.

He sighs, teeth digging into his bottom lip as he flicks his gaze between the window and the cot. “Is he sedated?”

“Yes. I figured it was better than leaving him in pain. Should be out for several hours.”

A deep inhale, as he feels his insides twist with anxious nausea. This still feels like a trick, like she just wants an excuse to put another muzzle on him. Can’t trust the Edenite, don’t you know they’re all cannibals?

“... How long.” He can’t believe he’s considering this, but if it’ll make up for what he did to the man, he has to.

“I’m sorry?”

“How long would I have to-” He cuts himself off, making a vague gesture. This wasn’t something he talked about, ever. It wasn’t something he’d thought about beyond quiet, lonely nights years ago forcing himself to learn how to control it. Suddenly ending up a few inches tall would be deadly, so he kept his abilities on a tight leash. Crushed down that instinctual response to fear until the only thing left was to fight.

“Ah. I don’t know, a- a couple hours at most? It’s not like this is an exact science.” Ava responds, sounding almost as uncomfortable as he feels. “And- I don’t know how much you know about shifters, but unless you actively wanted to hurt him, it should be safe.”

There’s a question there that she’s not asking. But he understands it regardless, shaking his head. “Should?”

“There’s not exactly a lot of shifters left to ask. But the records we still have from before the Rapture say so.” She sounds unsure, but what choice did she have? It was highly unlikely the man would recover without an intervention of some kind. Between a long, slow, painful death as his cells break down from radiation and the chance of either being healed or dying quickly while sedated, the choice is obvious.

“You just keep coming up with ways to use me.” Simon mutters, turning his back on the window to fully face the cot and the thin, pale specter of a man lying on it.

He lifts his hand, hesitating for a moment before lowering it onto Jack’s arm. This isn’t something he’s done before, he hasn’t even used his abilities in years. And that had always only ever been on himself.

He hasn’t done it since-

A shake of his head. Doesn’t matter. Don’t think about how terrifying it had been. How much it’d hurt.

It takes a while to dig out, years of ignoring it and crushing it down leaving him feeling like there was a welded-shut door in his head, one he just kept stacking things in front of to hide from view. Ironic. But eventually he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and then, with a feeling like something splitting open in his chest, he pulls.

A brief, mild wave of dizziness overtakes him, like the head rush of standing up too quickly. It soon fades, however, and after a few seconds he opens his eyes again. Looking down at the cot, his first thought is that Jack had vanished, but no. He was still there, just reduced to only a few inches tall. His fingertips gently rested on the man’s arm, the bone within feeling fragile as a twig beneath his light touch.

What the fuck am I doing.

He already knows. He didn’t forget. But there’s a difference between thinking about having to- to swallow someone to save their life, and suddenly staring down at a tiny person whose life was in his hands.

It’s not the first time he’s held a life in the balance. It might be the first time he’s saved one, though.

As delicately as he can, he slips his fingers under the tiny welder, doing his best not to shift his position too much. He’s not sure how fragile he is, and would really not like to find out like this. But after a nerve-wracking few seconds, the little man is laid across his hand, and Simon is left staring down the barrel of his next step.

“This is fucking insane. I’ve completely lost it.” He mutters to himself, dragging his free hand down his face with a low groan. It doesn’t help that he can still feel the Captain watching him, but if he thinks too much about that he’ll lose his nerve.

This is your fault. You need to fix it. Just fucking do it, Simon.

His hand trembles slightly as he lifts it to his face, pausing for a few seconds to run his tongue over his teeth. His blood wasn’t the only thing the ocean had changed—several of his teeth had turned into large, sharp, sturdy fangs that felt almost too big for his mouth. It was worse on the left side, what had once been his molars turned into something more suited for ripping through meat and crushing bone, but his canines and the teeth on either side on the right hadn’t been spared, either. He’ll have to be careful.

The sudden mental flash of a tiny body crushed between jagged spires of bone is almost enough to make him back out, a nearly overwhelming wave of nausea hitting him like a cargo hauler, but he manages to breathe through it.

Come on. Stop stalling. Or are you really this much of a coward, B-

A sharp shake of his head before he raises his hand to his lips. He takes a deep breath, opens his mouth, and tilts his hand to gently slip the welder onto his tongue, flattened carefully over his teeth.

He tastes like sweat and sickness and metal, the same nauseating taste that’d eventually filled his mouth when he’d taped down the camera button. Radiation. Not quite the horrible cloying copper of blood, but not that far off, either.

Simon screws his eyes shut, sucking in a deep breath through his nose. He has to be careful, Jack is in a fragile enough state already.. Tipping his head back, he tries not to shudder as the limp form slides towards the back of his mouth. This just feels wrong, even if he knows it’s the only real option. The Captain won’t let someone irreplaceable die, and it’s his fault he’s in this condition.

If he doesn’t do it of his own volition, they’d probably just drug him and do it anyway. Despite what she said.

With a faint whine he swallows once, twice, and then shivers at the feeling of something solid and heavy sliding down his throat. The taste lingers, even as he feels the weight slipping beneath his collarbone, deeper into his chest. It feels like swallowing a too-big bite of food, a stretch that’s almost painful with nothing to do but wait it out. And then-

He fails to bite back the breathy whimper that escapes when he feels a weight slide into his core. Feels heavier than in his hand, even though he knows that’s impossible. Dense and warm, radiating out like his foggy recollections of eating stew when he was young. How the heat warmed him from the inside.

It makes him nauseous. But the next realization is worse.

For the first time in years, he feels satisfied. Like he won’t be hungry again in an hour or two. He clamps a hand over his mouth, breathing slowly through his nose and forcing himself to swallow the overwhelming urge to gag.

“I, uh. I did it.” He mumbles, once he no longer feels like he’s about to vomit. And then has to cover his mouth all over again because it shouldn’t feel good. But he feels warm and soft, like he just wants to curl up around himself and fall asleep. His other arm wraps around his middle, not even the slightest sign of what had happened noticeable from the outside. Unless someone already knew, it was like Jack had just vanished without a trace.

The thought was horrifyingly satisfying. He can taste bile in the back of his throat, but forces himself to swallow it back. A few hours. He just has to last a few hours, and then he’d be done. He could do that. He’s survived worse.

“-mon? Is everything okay?”

He blinks at the sound of his name. The Captain- Ava. She sounds concerned, and he can’t blame her. She’d had to hand over complete control of her friend’s life to a piece of Edenite scum.

“I, uh.” Another heavy swallow, and a slight shudder in his breath. He can still taste metal and salt. “Fine. Just, um. Weird. Nauseous.”

He waves a hand in the air, taking a deep breath and turning to look at her again. She seems… concerned, and a little pale.

Right. He might be the last shifter left.

“Alright.” She looks down at her pad, looking almost relieved to break eye contact. “Just- stay here until- for a few hours. If anything happens, there’s a call button by the bed.”

A glance towards the cot shows a device that looks like- he’ll just call it a remote. He hears her footsteps shift away from the door slightly, before pausing.

“Oh. And Simon?”

His gaze snaps up at the steel in her voice. The Captain is back.

“What?”

“Whether or not this works, I expect to see him again.” Her stare is harsh, the clouded white of her left eye like ice as it slices through him. He just nods.

If anything happens to Jack, he’ll end up right back in the next fucking sub. Or maybe she wouldn’t even bother, just throw him into the ocean as-is. Why waste the steel on him, right?

“Good.” And with that she turns, disappearing from view and leaving him alone. Except for-

No. Alone. If he thinks about it he’ll gag again.

There’s no clock in the room, and his grasp of time has been fuzzy ever since the second hit to the head in the sub, so he’s not sure how long he stands there before eventually sitting down against the wall. Less than half an hour, probably. He draws his legs up, wraps his arms around his middle, and lets his head tip back until it’s resting against the steel behind him.

Boredom is an old companion, at least. Means he’s safe for the moment, or as safe as anyone can be. The only pain is the dull ache of his healing scrapes and bruises, and he’s not cold or hungry. As long as he doesn’t think about why, it’s almost pleasant. Warm and heavy and satisfying. Enough to lull him into a soft daze, eyes sliding shut and humming softly under his breath, curled loosely around himself.

Footsteps in the hall outside. He’s on his feet before they even fully register, left arm wrapped around himself and right clenched tight in a fist. The door clicks, and he tenses-

David steps through, head low and gaze on the floor. Simon relaxes only slightly, watching silently as he steps in and closes the door before glancing towards the cot and freezing. His breath catches, loud in the quiet room, before his head suddenly snaps towards Simon as he shifts. For a second he looks startled, then furious. He storms toward him, hands balling into fists.

“Fucking Edenite shifter.”

Well, that news got around quickly.

It’s a clumsy swing, easy enough to sidestep and grab the man by the wrist. Twist his arm behind his back, shove him forward until he’s pinned against the wall with Simon’s other forearm pressed against the back of his neck.

“Don’t touch me.” He hisses, leaning a little heavier when David tries to squirm free.

“I knew we should’ve left your ass down there—what, the radiation wasn’t enough? Had to finish the job yourself, Butcher? Or did you just miss the taste of human flesh?” The man snaps back, throwing his free elbow into Simon’s ribs.

That gets a snarl out of him, grabbing him by the back of the neck and squeezing his wrist tight enough to feel the bones grind together before twisting to throw him halfway across the room. One hand hovers over his middle for a moment before covering the bruise forming on his side as he jabs his finger at the door with the other.

“Get. Out.”

David looks sick for a moment, then scared, then enraged, grey eyes flicking from Simon’s middle to his face and straightening up. He’s almost as tall as Simon, but lankier, lean without much visible muscle. Not a difficult fight, if it came down to it, but he’d rather avoid it entirely. Too risky, and not just for him.

“Do you seriously think I’m just going to walk out and let you-” His voice cuts off with a choked sound, and he gestures at Simon with a heavy swallow. “He’s my friend. You probably don’t have those on Eden.”

He bristles, lips curling in a silent snarl. “I’m trying to- fuck, not like you’ll listen to me anyway.” Dragging his hand down his face, he takes a deep breath and glares, gesturing towards the door again. “Talk to your Captain. She’s the one who put me up to this.”

“Yeah, pull the other one. Goddamn Eden freak.” David sneers, before lunging again. Unsteady, uncoordinated, poor footing. Emotional. Simon ducks, twisting away again before driving an elbow into David’s gut. He retches, breath driven out in a sharp wheeze as he crumples to his knees with his arms wrapped around himself.

“Fucking stop!” Simon snaps, throwing his arm out in a furious gesture. “I’m trying to- I’m trying to help him!”

“What, by putting him out of his misery? That’s all you Edenites know how to do.” The other man scrambles to his feet, wavering and holding his stomach with one arm.

“I’M NOT TRYING TO-”

A sudden strange fluttering feeling makes him choke, hand snapping to rest on his middle as a shiver runs down his spine. He stumbles back a step, fingers curling into the worn fabric of his shirt before having to swallow what would’ve likely been a truly embarrassing sound, free hand clamping over his mouth to be sure nothing escapes. David stares at him with wide, horrified eyes, still half hunched over his bruises and seemingly frozen in place but whatever focus Simon might’ve had drops clean out of his skull at another light, fluttering movement.

Why does it feel good. What the fuck is wrong with me.

David says something, but it’s lost in the fuzzy haze in his head—tiny touches sending electricity dancing under his skin, a warm dense weight moving and pressing against his insides. A wall behind him and hands balled in the collar of his shirt.

He blinks, dark gaze sharpening to meet the wide, grey stare boring into him.

“What the fuck are you doing, you monster.” David snarls, furious and terrified. Close enough Simon could probably break his nose if he headbutted him, but even the thought of blood makes him queasy anymore.

“I’m not- I-” It’s a struggle just to string words together, but as soon as he speaks the fluttering goes still.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

“God, fucking Edenites, are you all this stupid? Whatever you’re doing, cut it out!”

A spark of anger flares, and he opens his mouth to snap back, but it’s quickly smothered by a sudden, frantic burst of movement that forces a strangled squeak of a noise from his throat. For a second his knees go weak, and he’s pretty sure he only stays standing because of David’s hands fisted in his shirt and the wall at his back. He feels like he’s burning up, like he’s being tased, but none of it hurts. Just electricity dancing along his spine, warmth under his skin.

“I think- I think he’s awake.” He manages to force out through the fog. Swears he can feel little hands shoving at him, scrambling like someone desperately searching for an escape. He tenses without even realizing it, and oh that’s worse, every frantic, shaking  movement pressed up against sensitive flesh, overwhelming him with sparks behind his eyes. By the time his vision clears David has retreated a step or two, still staring, but with more confusion and dread than anger.

Whatever.

Jack doesn’t seem to be on the verge of death anymore, and he wants to be done with this. He shoulders past the man, half-crumpling over the cot at another burst of squirming with one arm bracing him upright and his other hand pressed to his stomach. This was all completely new, but somehow he still had a feeling of what to do.

Tensing his stomach, he shudders at the feeling of a warm, wriggling lump being forced back up his throat. It’s worse than swallowing him had been—like a live wire tracing all the way up to his mouth, squirming helplessly against the muscles surrounding him. Simon gags, a limp, trembling form spilling onto his tongue—the taste of metal and sickness is gone, leaving only salt and the faint hint of something else he can’t quite put his finger on—before lifting his hand and dropping him out of his mouth onto his palm with a wet splat.

The welder is absolutely drenched, sprawled face-down and shivering in a puddle of clear fluid with his hair and clothes plastered to his body from how saturated they are, but he looks better than he did before. Still gaunt, but no longer quite as pale, and he’s moving. He sputters and coughs, pushing up to his hands and knees.

“Told you I wasn’t trying to kill him.” Simon mutters, feeling the tiny man freeze at the sound of his voice, before lowering his hand to gently deposit him back on the cot. The same strange pulling feeling in his chest, and he’s back to normal size as he pulls his hand away, wiping saliva and whatever else off on the leg of his pants.

“Wh- you-” David sputters. Seemingly finally out of words. He doesn’t give a shit.

With a sharp huff Simon shoves past him again, stumbling through the door and slamming it shut behind him. Back down the short walk to his room, where he drops to the floor and curls up in a corner opposite the door, hands tangled tightly into his hair.

It worked. Everyone was fine. He’d fixed his fuck up.