Special interest barf

It takes barely a manoeuvre for the pinned location to come into view in the distance.

Your body lurches forward in the cockpit at the sight of a liquid — you're quick to register as blood, fresh blood, leaking from what seems to be a... blob of metal, rising up like wisps of smoke in the air.

"A Leviathan class lifeform has been detected. Proceed with caution."

"What the fuck—!?" Throwing yourself back on your chair, you swivel around to toggle all available lights off, turning back around to slam your hand against the control panel—

You have to keep the engines on if you plan on making an escape.

Waiting for the engines to boot would mean certain death, and on the other hand, you can't outrun a leviathan with the Cyclops even if you were to set your engines on fire anyway.

".... Okay. Let's assume I didn't see it and it didn't see me," you sigh, "Is it the Ghost Leviathan?" you inquire, having been previously acquainted with one adult residing in the region.

Would things be easier if it was a creature you previously survived an encounter with? Probably not.

"Scans indicate this is a different life form than the previously scanned adult Ghost Leviathan."

Great. But maybe it's just not worth it. Maybe it's just a fresh kill you have unfortunately been too late to save. All you need is the confirmation.

"Is the human life form alive?"

"Vital signs present, yet rapidly deteriorating."

Things never go your way, do they?

"Wonderful," you spit out, "So my choices are; ignore I even heard the announcement and leave a human being to die and live the rest of my days with the choice haunting me, try saving said human being and either die trying or they die anyway and all of it turns out to be for nothing, or everything works out by some miracle and they're not an asshole and I get a new friend on this forsaken planet besides the Cuddlefish."

Any sane person would simply turn around and leave. If the person has lost so much blood to the point it's clouding the surrounding waters, chances of their survival might as well be zero.

If you were to be a slave to your own conscience, you wouldn't be able to survive. While it doesn't apply to the situation you have on the planet, considering every life pod you've ever responded to the distress call of has already long been destroyed, it's just how life works overall, isn't it? Each to their own, in a way.

It's just not worth the effort. The decision is clear, if only you give yourself some time to ponder.

"The odds of surviving an encounter with an apex class leviathan life form are three thousand seven hundred twenty to one."

The thing is, you don't ponder.

"Are you sure whatever you're doing is worth it?"

"It's been a while since I've been stupid." Beelining to your seamoth, jumping down the hatch in equal parts glee and dread, you mutter, "Time to change that."

When Simon regains his consciousness, the light around him is so blinding he can't even open his eyes from the strain.

He can breathe. God, he can breathe. There's not much else he can feel, or do, assuming his body is numb.

"Ugh..."

"Oh, sorry!" His face contorts at the unexpected voice, pulse spiking, "It's probably too bright for you, yeah? Give me a second."

There is a muted whirr as the light gradually decreases, finally dwindling down to what his eyes consider acceptable levels. Blinking what feels like needles from his eyes, he squints, forcing his eyes to focus.

The sight that greets him feels nothing short of heaven.

His surroundings, not only blindingly bright compared to the bleak world he was born and raised in, is pure, pristine white. There are large glass panels across the room as far as he can see, an abundance of them, too. Outside, an ocean, not of blood but a serene blue, sparkling like the ghost of the stars he knows of, only brighter.

Simon jerks in place, trying to launch himself off whatever surface he is resting on, though his movement is restricted by what he assumes is constraints.

"Who—" he roars, "What are you? Where am I?! The black box—"

Dread doesn't even begin to explain the feeling blooming in his chest. Hasn't he done enough? Suffered enough?

"I'll explain," you offer, gently as possible, well aware of how frenzied he is getting in his ignorance. "From the top, just to be safe. You are on planet 4546B. The Aurora has crashed, and I was under the impression that I was the only survivor until I got a reading of another human being nearby. You were in a... crude imitation of a submarine — or I believe that's what it was supposed to be, at least. You're..." you swallow thickly, knowing if his answer is as you predicted, it will raise even more questions than before, "You're not from the Aurora, correct?"

The man stills, gears in his head turning.

"... No." He offers after a moment of silence, "I..." am from Eden, the reply briefly crosses his mind, though he instead settles for further solidifying his reply; "Not from the Aurora, no. Frankly, I don't understand half the things you're saying."

"Figured as much," you sigh with a slight smile, rolling your shoulders back, "Well! We can cross that bridge when we get to it. The technology of the wreck I fished you out of falls spectacularly short of Alterra's, let alone the alien facilities' standards." Pursing your lips, you continue, "Anyway. I found you with your not-submarine half-chewn open. You were bleeding out a lot, missing a limb, and severely... uh, mutated." you offer hesitantly, not knowing how he'd take the news. Blowing off the subject, you go on, "You're a lucky man. An extremely lucky man. I had my radiation suit on when the cyclops picked up on your readings, so I was able to get you with little to no harm inflicted upon myself, despite the apparent presence of a Leviathan in the scans. And I had built a proper medical bay equipped with everything this world and beyond had to offer." You take a sip of something from a bottle to pace the conversation, "The readings picked up on a lot, and by that I mean a lot of afflictions, and number of poisonings including but not limited to radiation and alcohol poisoning. Honestly, I don't know how you managed to stay alive for as long as you did."

He takes a look down. While covered in bandages, his body feels light, healthy in a way he has not felt since childhood.

"All cured now, of course." You exhale through your nose, "Regarding your arm, I could synthesize a prosthetic, if you'd like," tapping a few times on your tablet, you show him an example model, "Something like this, customized to your body any tastes, of course. I did not want to go through with any big body modifications before you woke up."

A choice. You gave him a choice.

The realisation alone is enough to make his brain screech to a halt, all his thoughts about the SM-8, the eel, the black box getting drowned out by the weight of someone finally thinking him human enough to ask. Whatever this is, purgatory or afterlife or a dream, he decides he can live in it a little longer.

"Thank you," he chokes, eyes glassing over. With that distant look in his eyes, you can't be sure if he's addressing you, despite being the only other sentient creature in the room.

"Sorry about the bindings," You chew on your lip nervously, "I didn't know whether any of your afflictions were infectious—" Clicking your tongue, you drag a hand over your head, "Oh, that's a lie. I know we're both survivors, but I was worried you'd be a danger to me. People are assholes sometimes, I'm sure you know. I hope you can understand."

"Oh, I'd know." That surprisingly draws a weak chuckle out of him, "Uh, so can I be released now, or...?"

"Oh!" you startle, "Yeah, sure! Let me just run a scan real quick to see if you're clear, like getting dispatched from a hospital."

He lets his head hit the foam pillow of the medical table he's resting on. You don't know all he's ever known are cramped med bays overflowing with people ushered out too hastily to ever recover fully, if you were even lucky enough to get treated, that is.

"Vital signs normal. Nutrition and fluid intake required. Continuing to monitor."

"Right, of course." you laugh sheepishly, "You've been unconscious for so long, no wonder you need actual sustenance. The IVs can only do so much," you lean over to remove the clasps of the belts binding him down, though your posture is still tense, he realises.

That's alright. He's not too relaxed either.

"We have a wide, wide variety of cooked fish, some types of salads, veggies and fruits, and of course, snacks from the vending machine on the menu. Whichever you prefer. While you decide—" you walk over to a large machine that opens a hatch automatically and take a bottle, opening the cap and handing it over to him, "Water. We also have choices with that, but I wouldn't want to overwhelm you, heh."

Overwhelmed with choices he never got to make in life? He doesn't think of that as too bad of a punishment.

"You never gave me your name," he mumbles before raising the bottle to his lips and all but inhaling the liquid inside.

Blinking at the sight, you get him another bottle of water, this time from a locker filled to the brim with them, and offer your name as you hand over the bottle to him.

"... Simon." He offers, hesistant, as if his own name was a curse he puts on you when he utters it. Yet he owes you his name, at the very least.

"Good to meet you, Simon. Glad you survived."

A small laugh akin to a choke leaves his mouth in disbelief, even though living was all he's ever wanted.