Nathan

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 has all he's ever wanted.

You don't remember the exact moment they pulled you out.

That's the first thing you'll tell Ryland and Simon much, much later. You'll tell them that the memory is a hole in your head, a black spot where a chunk of your life used to be. One moment you were in the escape pod after three days without sleep, without food, without anything except the sounds of screams and murder and cries and howls echoing in the mothership you'd left behind, and the next moment you were surrounded by light.

Not human light. Not the harsh, flickering fluorescents of the space stations you'd grown up on. This light was warm, almost organic, pulsing in frequencies your eyes hadn't evolved to process. And the shapes moving through it —Eridians, you'd learn later, though at the time you thought you were dead and this was some kind of alien afterlife—were so incomprehensible that your brain simply refused to process them.

You passed out.

When you woke up, you were inside a transparent ball. Xenonite. Though you didn't know that yet.

The Eridians had been gentle. That's the part that fucks with your head the most, looking back. They had no reason to be gentle. You were a strange, soft, small creature that had drifted into their territory in a piece of salvage that was barely holding together. They could have ignored you. They could have dissected you. Instead, they'd built you a climate-controlled bubble: warm, pressurized, filled with a thin but breathable atmosphere. Instead they'd transported you across however many light-years to their homeworld.

You don't remember the journey. You remember dreams. Fragments. Your crewmates' faces, one by one. The thing that moved through the corridors of the Gethsemane, a smell like copper and rot and something else, something wrong. You remember being the last one. Not because you were brave. Not because you were smart. Just because the creature had to kill someone first, and then someone second, and then someone third, and then someone fourth, and you were the fifth.

Someone always has to be last.

It had been your turn to be last.

You open your eyes.

Ryland Grace has been living on Erid for approximately two weeks when he hears the news.

He's sitting on the warm sand and he's staring at the stars through the curved xenonite wall of his habitat. It's a dome, massive and circular, built specifically to house a single fragile human being on a planet where the atmosphere would liquefy his lungs and the gravity would crush his spine. Rocky designed it. Rocky built it. Rocky checks on him every few hours, despite Grace's protests that he's fine, he's okay, he doesn't need a babysitter.

"I am not a babysitter. statement." Rocky says, his voice translating through the device they built together, the harmonic bridge between Eridian chirps and human phonemes. "I am a friend. Are you eating. Question."

"I'm eating."

"You are not eating. I am observing. You are pushing the food around."

Grace sighs and looks down at the bowl of algae-paste in his hands. Rocky is right. He's been pushing it around for twenty minutes, not because it tastes bad but because he's been thinking about Earth. About Stratt. About the Petrova line and the astrophage and the billions of people who are, by now, either dead or alive or something in between.

He doesn't know. He'll never know. That's the part he can't accept.

"Rocky," he says. "can I ask you something?"

"You are asking. Statement. I am listening."

"Do you ever think about—"

The door to the habitat opens.

Grace flinches. The door isn't supposed to open. Not without warning. Not without his say-so. He's the only human on Erid. He's the only human within fifteen light-years, at least, probably more, unless there are other survivors out there, which there aren't, because the Hail Mary was the only ship and he was the only—

But the door is open.

And through it, pushed by a team of Eridian scientists whose segmented bodies are pulsing with what Grace has learned to recognize as excitement, come two xenonite spheres.

They're smaller than the one he arrived in. Transport pods, maybe. Temporary housing. Each one is filled with a breathable atmosphere, and each one contains-

Oh no.

Grace stands up so fast he drops his bowl. The algae-paste spills onto the sand. He doesn't care.

"Rocky." he says, his voice very quiet. "Rocky, what is that."

The translation device crackles. "Those are humans. Statement. Two humans."

"I can see that they're humans, Rocky. Why are there two humans in my habitat."

"They were rescued. Statement. One human was found in a damaged submersible vessel in the blood ocean of a moon in a nearby system. Second human was found in an emergency escape pod. Both humans were recovered by Eridian science vessels. Statement. Both humans require an environment suitable to human biology. Statement. This is the only environment on Erid suitable to human biology. Therefore-"

"Therefore they're staying here?" Grace's voice cracks. He can hear it. He doesn't care. "Rocky, you can't just- you can't just drop two random humans into my habitat without asking me first! I'm not—I'm not equipped for this! I'm not a zookeeper!"

"You are not a zookeeper. Statement. You are a human. They are humans. They require-"

"I know what they require! They require oxygen and warmth and- and therapy, probably, look at them, Rocky, look at them!"

He points at the two xenonite spheres, which the Eridian scientists are now gently positioning onto the sand with one of their huge transportation claws that they use to put things inside his habitat without entering. Inside the first sphere, a man. He's huge, muscular. His hair is dark and matted, hanging over a face that's all sharp angles and shadows. He's wearing what looks like a prison uniform, faded and torn, and his hands are scarred. Knuckles broken and healed, broken and healed, broken and healed until they look like knots on a tree.

The man is sitting in the center of his sphere with his knees drawn up to his chest, and he's staring. Not at anything specific. Just staring. His eyes are dark and flat and wrong in a way that makes Grace's hindbrain start screaming predator.

Inside the second sphere, a woman. You are that woman.

You're younger than the man, he notes. Early twenties, maybe. You're wearing the remnants of a uniform: a patch on the shoulder that Grace can't quite read from this distance, a name tag that's been scratched out. You're not curled up like the man. You're standing. Standing still, your arms at your sides, your head tilted slightly to one side.

And you're looking.

Not staring like the other man. Looking. Your eyes are moving, tracking, cataloging. Every few seconds, your gaze flicks to the xenonite walls, then to the sand, then to the artificial sun-lamp in the ceiling, then to Grace, then back to the man, then to the Eridian scientists outside the dome. You're not blinking enough.

You looks like an animal that's been cornered and has given up on running and is now waiting to see which direction the killing blow will come from.

"Rocky." Grace says, his voice barely a whisper. "Rocky, no."

"Explanation. They are your same species. Statement. They need the same environment. Therefore-"

"Rocky. Look at them. They don't look- they don't look civilized. That one" He points at the man "looks like he's going to murder someone. He looks like he's done murder."

"Humans are a violent species. Question. You are also a human. Does that mean Grace is violent. Question."

"I'm cuddly compared to that guy, Rocky! I'm a teddy bear! I'm- I'm a middle school science teacher who makes beanbag toss jokes! I'm not equipped to handle whatever that is!"

Grace doesn't like this.

His hands are raised. His palms are facing you and Simon. It is a universal sign of peace, of I am not a threat, but his face tells a different story.

His face says: What the fuck have they dropped into my living room.

"Rocky." he says, trying a different angle, "some humans don't like other humans. Some humans are dangerous. I'm not- I'm not comfortable with this. I didn't sign up for roommates. I didn't sign up for- for whatever this is."

Rocky is quiet for a long moment. Grace can see him through the xenonite suit, his clawed hands twitching in that way they do when he's thinking hard.

Then Rocky says. "They are same species. Statement. They need a suitable habitat. Statement. You are not allowed to refuse."

"I'm not allowed?"

"Clarification. The habitat is Eridian property. The Eridian science council has authorized the placement of these humans in this habitat. Statement. You do not have veto power. Statement. I am sorry."

Grace opens his mouth to argue. Closes it. Opens it again.

"Rocky-" he says, very quietly, "I'm going to say something, and I need you to listen very carefully. Those two humans are not normal. They are not okay. Something has happened to them. Something bad. And I don't know how to help them. I don't know how to be around them. I'm a science teacher, Rocky. I teach kids about photosynthesis. I don't- I don't do trauma. I don't do whatever that is."

Rocky's claws twitch again. "Observation. You also experienced trauma. You also were not normal when you arrived. Statement. I helped you. You helped me. Statement. You will help them. Or they will help you. Or you will help each other. Statement. This is what living beings do."

"That's not—"

But Rocky is already turning away to approach the wall of the dome, speaking to the other Eridian scientists through the wall in a rapid series of chirps and clicks that the translation device doesn't catch. And the scientists are moving, their claws reaching for controls.

They're going to open the xenonite balls.

They're going to open them right now.

"Rocky!" Grace says, panic rising in his throat. "Rocky, wait! Rocky, please. At least give me a warning. At least give me- give me a heads-up or something so I can—I don't know, prepare mentally???"

The spheres open.

The xenonite spheres retract like flower petals, dissolving into the sand.

For a moment, nothing happens.

The man (Simon, Grace will learn later) doesn't move. He stays curled up, his knees to his chest, his head down. He looks like a spring that's been compressed too tight, waiting for the pressure to release.

You don't move either. You stand exactly where the sphere deposited you, your arms at your sides, your breathing shallow and controlled.

Grace raises his hands higher. He's not sure why.

"Hi-" he says. His voice comes out too high. He clears his throat and tries again. "Hi. Hello. Um, Welcome. I'm- I'm Ryland. Ryland Grace. I'm a—I'm a human. Obviously. You can see that. I'm human. We're all human here. Ha. That's- that was a joke. Because we're all human. In this habitat. Which is for humans."

Simon looks up.

Oh, Grace thinks. Oh no.

Simon's eyes are wrong. They're not just flat, they're burning. There's something behind them, something hot and hungry and angry, and it's looking at Grace like he's a problem to be solved. Like he's an obstacle. Like he's prey.

Simon stands up.

He doesn't do it slowly. He doesn't do it gracefully. He unfolds, all at once, like a trap being sprung. One moment he's curled on the sand, and the next moment he's on his feet, his shoulders hunched, his hands curled into fists, his head low.

He's looking at Grace.

No, he's looking past Grace. He's looking at the xenonite walls. At the artificial sun. At the sand. At the stars beyond the dome. His lips are moving, but no sound is coming out. He's mouthing something.

"This is- this is my home. Sort of. The Eridians built it for me. And I'm sure you're both very—" He stops. His eyes dart between you and Simon. "...very.. something. But I need you to just. Take a breath. Both of you. Nobody here is going to hurt anybody."

You do not move.

You have learned not to trust people who tell you that nobody is going to hurt you. The last person who said that was your captain, three hours before the thing ripped him in half.

Your eyes seem to convey your distrust.

Grace takes a step back. "Okay," he says. "Okay. Let's all just- let's all just take a breath. Nobody needs to- nobody needs to do anything rash. We're all friends here. We're all-"

Simon turns his head.

He's not looking at Grace anymore. He's looking at you.

His head turns. The motion is slow, mechanical, like a turret swiveling to acquire a target. His eyes find yours. And you see it: the shift, the calculation, the recognition. A potential threat. A variable he did not account for, and variables get people killed.

And you're looking back at him.

Something passes between you. Grace doesn't know what it is. He doesn't want to know what it is. All he knows is that Simon's posture changes: his weight shifts, his center of gravity drops, his hands flex, and your posture changes too. Your shoulders square. Your chin lifts. Your trembling hands stop trembling.

"Okay," Grace says, backing up another step. "Okay. That's- that's a look. That's a look you're giving each other. That's a concerning look. Can we talk about the look? Can we just- can we just use our words—"

You do not know what your face is doing. You have lost the ability to control your face. Somewhere in the three days you spent hiding in the Gethsemane's air vents, listening to the creature drag your crewmates' bodies through the corridors, your face stopped being yours. It became a mask. A flat, wide-eyed, unblinking thing that sees everything and betrays nothing.

Grace sees this. His hands go higher.

Simon moves.

It's not a charge. It's not an attack. It's something more akin to a lunge, a leap, a launch. He crosses the distance between himself and you in less than a second, his arms outstretched, his hands reaching for your throat, your shoulders, your face, anything.

It happens too fast for Grace to react. One moment Simon is standing still, his head turned toward you, his breathing shallow. The next, he is on you. His body crashing into yours, you both hit the sand hard, the wind knocked out of you, and then instinct takes over.

You do not scream.

You have not screamed since the Gethsemane. Screaming attracts things.

But you fight.

Your knee comes up between you and Simon, catching him in the stomach. He grunts but doesn't stop. His fist connects with your jaw, not hard enough to break bone, but hard enough to make your vision white out for a split second. You twist, using the leverage of the sand, and suddenly you are on top of him, your forearm pressed against his throat.

He roars.

It is not a human sound. It is something primal, something scraped out of a throat that has forgotten how to speak. He throws you off with a strength that scares Grace shitless, and now you are both scrambling, both clawing, both grappling. Silent on your end, vocal on his, a symphony of rage and survival and something that sounds like prayer.

Grace is frozen.

He's standing ten feet away, his hands still raised in that useless gesture of peace, his mouth hanging open, his brain refusing to process what he's seeing.

"Rocky." Grace hisses, his voice cracking. "Rocky, do something!"

Outside the xenonite dome, having went out just before the spheres dissolved, Rocky is watching.

His claws are twitching in a pattern that Grace has learned to recognize as excitement. He's chirping to the other Eridian scientists, his voice rapid and almost joyful.

"Rocky!"

"Is this the human mating ritual. Question."

What.

"Rocky, this is NOT a mating ritual!"

"Statement. I am observing. They are gripping each other. They are making sounds. They are exchanging physical contact. Question. Is this not how humans reproduce."

"Rocky!"

"Clarification. I am not understanding the problem. They are mating. This is good."

Grace wants to scream. He wants to tear his hair out. He wants to shake Rocky until his faceted eyes fall out of his head.

"They are not-" Grace chokes on his own words. "They are not doing a mating ritual! They're fighting! They're hurting each other! This is bad, Rocky! This is the opposite of good!"

Rocky's claws stop twitching.

"Oh." he says.

Silence.

"Oh." he says again. "Statement. I may have made a miscalculation."

"You think?"

"BUT THEY ARE SAME SPECIES. EXPLANATION. WHY DO SAME SPECIES TRY TO KILL."

"Because humans are-" Grace stops. Rethinks. "Actually, no, that's a fair question. I don't have a good answer. We just do that sometimes."

"THAT IS BAD. STATEMENT. VERY BAD. BADBADBADBADBAD." Rocky's legs move in an agitated pattern. "THEY ALONE. THEY NEED COMPANY. GRACE DO SOMETHING. COMMAND."

"What do you want me to do?" Grace hisses. "They're either highly trained in combat or they've gone completely feral—I can't tell which—and I am one middle school science teacher. I am not equipped for this. I was equipped for Astrophage. I was equipped for saving the sun. I was not equipped for interpersonal conflict resolution between two traumatized murderers."

Simon has you pinned again.

"EDEN!" Simon howls, and his voice breaks on the word. "EDEN TOOK EVERYTHING! EDEN AND THE- THE GETHSEMANE. THE GETHSEMANE DISAPPEARED AND THIS PLACE-" He punches the sand next to your head, deliberately missing. "THIS PLACE HAS SOMETHING TO DO WITH IT! I KNOW IT DOES! I KNOW!!"

You stop fighting.

Just like that. Your body goes limp beneath him. Your arms fall to your sides. Your eyes, still wide, still unblinking, find his face.

Simon freezes.

His fist is still raised. His knuckles are split, bleeding onto your collar. His chest is heaving. His eyes are wild. But something in your stillness has reached through the red haze, because he doesn't hit you. He can't hit you. Not like this. Not when you are looking at him like that.

"How," you say, and your voice is a ruin. It hasn't been used in days. Maybe weeks. You have forgotten the shape of words. "How do you know about the Gethsemane."

Simon blinks.

His fist lowers, slowly, like a machine winding down. He is still straddling you, still pinning you to the sand, but the violence has drained out of his posture. He looks confused. Lost.

"I'm.. from Eden," he says, and the words come out rough, hesitant, almost questioning. Like a little kid's. "The—the colony. Eden."

"I'm from the Gethsemane," you say, and your voice is shaking now, cracking at the edges. "The ship. The one that went off the grid. My crew- my crew spent years trying to find you. Trying to get back. We were looking for you."

Simon's mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

"You're from Eden." you repeat.

"Yes."

"You're from Eden."

"Yes."

"The Eden."

"I'm from Eden." Simon repeats once again. His voice is harder now. Defensive. "I was there. They sent me on some suicide mission to pay my penances and you-" He looks at your uniform. At the patch on your shoulder. At the scratched-out name tag. "You're from The Gethsemane."

"I'm from The Gethsemane."

"So you did not die."

"Not when you stopped getting the signals." Your voice breaks again, and this time it's not fear. It's grief. "We were stranded for years after a collission. We tried to search for you. And then—" You stop. Swallow. "And then the thing came. The creature. It got them. It got everyone except me. That's when we died, well, they died. I'm still here. as you can see."

Simon is quiet.

His hands are still wrapped around your wrists. He is still pinning you. His face is still inches from yours.

But something has changed.

His weight shifts. His grip loosens. He's not holding you down anymore. He's holding you still. Like he's afraid you'll disappear if he lets go.

"The Gethsemane." he says slowly. "You were on the Gethsemane."

"I was."

"And you were looking for Eden."

"We were."

Simon makes a sound. It's not a word. It's not a laugh. It's something between—a groan, a sigh, a release.

And then he moves.

Not to hit you. Not to hurt you.

He rolls off you, onto his back in the sand, and stares up at the artificial sun. His chest is heaving. His face is bloody. His hands are shaking.

And you're sitting up.

You're looking at him.

Your eyes are still wide, still haunted, but there's something else there now. Something alive.

"You're from Eden." you say again, like you're testing the words.

"I'm from Eden." Simon says.

You throw yourself at him.

Not to fight. Not this time.

You collapse onto him, your arms wrapping around his neck, your face pressing into his shoulder, your whole body shaking.

Simon makes a sound like he's been punched.

Simon, for his part, looks like he has been struck by lightning.

His hands hover in the air, uncertain, trembling. He does not know what to do with this. He has not been touched in kindness—or anything resembling kindness—in longer than he can remember. But his body knows what to do. His arms close around you, slowly at first, then tighter, until his hold is almost painful.

"GRACE."

"What."

"THEY STOP FIGHTING. OBSERVATION."

Grace turns back to look.

He's standing ten feet away, his hands lowered now, his mouth still open, his brain screaming.

"What." he says to no one. "What the fuck."

"THEY TOUCH," Rocky says, and there is something in his tone that Grace has learned to recognize as wonder. "THEY TOUCH AND DO NOT FIGHT. IS THIS... COMFORT. QUESTION."

"Yeah, Rocky." Grace's voice softens. "That's comfort."

"HUMANS NEED COMFORT. QUESTION."

"Yeah." Grace says, and for a moment, he forgets that he was panicking. For a moment, he just watches two broken people hold each other on the sand, and he thinks about the months he spent alone, about the nights he talked to a wall because he needed to hear a voice, about the first time Rocky touched his hand and he cried because he had forgotten what contact felt like. "Yeah, we do."

Grace approaches slowly.

He's not sure why he's approaching. Every instinct he has is telling him to stay back, to give you space, to not get involved in whatever the hell is happening. But his feet are moving anyway, carrying him across the warm sand, closer and closer to the two broken humans tangled together on the ground.

Simon sees him coming.

"Okay," Grace says, and he takes a step forward. Then another. "Okay. I'm going to- I'm just going to come over there. Very slowly. With my hands where you can see them. Because I am not a threat. I am the least threatening person on this planet. I am probably the least threatening person in this solar system. I once cried because I ran out of coffee. So. You know. Threat level: zero."

You watch him approach. Your head turns to track him, but your body stays still. Simon's head turns too. His eyes narrow.

Grace stops when he is standing over you. He looks down at Simon. Simon who is still laying on the sand, who is still holding you, who is looking up at Grace with an expression that Grace can only describe as proprietary.

Simon's arms tighten around you.

It is not subtle. His biceps flex. His hands press into your back. He pulls you closer to his chest, and his eyes never leave Grace's face.

Grace blinks.

"Okay." he says. "Wow. Okay. Possessive much?"

Simon doesn't even know he's doing it. But his whole body has shifted, curling around you, covering you, like he's protecting you from a threat.

From Grace.

Simon does not answer. He does not loosen his grip.

"I'm not going to take her from you," Grace says, and he means it to be a joke, but it comes out softer than he intended. "I'm just... I'm just going to sit down. Over here. Away from you. Where I am not a threat. Because I am really committed to not being a threat."

He sits down in the sand, cross-legged, a few feet away. Far enough to give Simon space. Close enough to talk.

For a long moment, nobody speaks.

Simon glares at him.

It's not the same glare from before. That glare was hostile, dangerous, predatory. This glare is something else. This glare is possessive.

And you're still clinging to him.

Simon's expression softens. Just a fraction. Just enough.

And then he looks up at Grace.

"Where are we." he says. It's not a question. It's a demand.

Grace swallows. "Erid"

He then makes a gesture, motioning over to the wall behind of which there are a few Eridians congregated. Simon follows Grace's gesture.

He looks at Rocky.

Rocky waves.

Simon's expression doesn't change.

"An alien colony." he says flatly.

"Friendly aliens." Grace corrects immediately when he sees the way you tense in Simon's arms. "They're- they're nice. Mostly. They're just curious. They saved you, by the way. You and-" He looks at you. "your friend."

You blink at him.

Simon is still looking at Rocky. His expression is calculating. He's trying to understand. Trying to process.

"The aliens brought us here." he says slowly.

"Eridians." Grace says. "And yes. They brought you here. To my habitat. Because apparently I'm the only human on this planet and they thought I needed roommates."

Simon looks back at Grace.

"You're alone here." he says.

"I was alone here." Grace corrects. "Now I'm not alone. For better or worse."

Simon is quiet for a long moment.

Then he looks down at you.

"We're not leaving." Simon says, it's a question.

"Doesn't seem like we have any options here" you answer.

Grace sighs.

"No," he admits. "No we don't."

You and Simon finally separate.

"I'm from the Gethsemane." you tell Ryland, as if testing the words. "I'm the only one left."

Simon's jaw tightens. "I'm from Eden."

The three of you form a rough triangle on the warm sand. The artificial sun is dimming, mimicking a sunset that doesn't exist on this planet. The xenonite walls are glowing softly, casting long shadows across the dome.

Outside, Rocky is still watching.

He's not alone anymore. Other Eridian scientists have gathered, their segmented bodies pressed against the xenonite, their faceted eyes fixed on the three humans sitting in a circle. They're fascinated. They're observing. They're taking notes, probably, in whatever way Eridians take notes.

Grace tries to ignore them.

"You're both from the same system." he says, rubbing his temples. "That's- that's something. That's a coincidence. Or maybe it's not. Maybe the Eridians have been looking for humans. Maybe they found you because they were trying to find you."

Simon snorts. "They found me because I was drowning in a submarine full of blood."

"They found me because I was drifting in an escape pod." you say quietly. "I didn't even know they were there. I didn't even see them. I just.." You stop. Swallow. "passed out. And then I woke up here."

Grace nods slowly.

"The Eridians are rescuers," he explains. "That's- that's kinda what they do. They find things. They save things. They're curious. They wanted to know what you were. They wanted to help."

Simon's jaw tightens. "I didn't ask for help."

"You didn't have to."

Simon glares at him.

Grace holds up his hands. "I'm not saying- look, I get it. I didn't ask for help either. I was forced onto the Hail Mary. I didn't want to be here. I wanted to be on Earth, in my classroom, with my students. I wanted to live."

"But you're here." Simon says.

"But I'm here." Grace agrees. "And I'm alive. And so are you. And so is she." He looks at you. "And maybe, just maybe, that's something. Don't you think?"

You look at Simon.

Simon looks at you.

You both look back at Ryland.

"Eden." Ryland sais. "Tell me about Eden."

Simon's expression shifts. The anger doesn't disappear, it's still there, simmering beneath the surface, but something else rises to meet it. Longing. Grief. Hope.

"Eden is a colony." he says slowly. "A survivor colony. After the stars in our sollar system went out, after the Quiet Rapture, the stations started falling apart. People started dying. But Eden—Eden held on. We had resources. We had leadership. We had-"

He stops.

His hands curl into fists.

"We had a religion." he says, the word bitter on his tongue. "A cult. They said- they said the stars went out because humanity had sinned. Because we had reached too far. They said the only way to survive was to repent. To sacrifice."

Your eyes widen.

"The Gethsemane ship," you whisper. "That's- that's where the name came from. The Bible."

Simon nods. "The ship was named after the covenant. It was supposed to be a pilgrimage. A mission. They sent it out to find—I don't even know what. Salvation. Redemption. Something."

"And you were on it?" Asks Ryland.

Simon laughs. It's a hollow sound.

"I was on it, alright." he says.

A beat of silence.

"So.. this is your place." you say. It is not a question.

"It's... temporary." Grace says. "The Eridians are building a ship to take me back to Earth. But it's going to take a while. Astrophage engines are fast, but they're not instant. So I'm here. Living in a bubble. Talking to a rock."

"And how did you get here?"

Simon looks at him.

"Um- my sun was.. dying, the main star of my solar system y'know and they sent.. me and a few other people to try and fix it." he says. "long story short, those people died and i was alone until Rocky found me, his star was also dying, so we worked together."

"I assume something went wrong."

Simon inquires.

"You assume right." Grace admits. "Things went south in Rocky's ship so I sacrificed my return to earth to get him home safe, and he brought me with him so.. here I am."

A beat.

"I have so many questions to ask you two. But I'm not going to ask them. Because I feel like that would be rude."

Simon snorts. It is the first sound he has made that is not angry or confused. It is almost... amused.

"Rude." Simon repeats. "You're worried about being rude."

"I'm a scientist living in an alien zoo," Grace huffs, a sound almost mimicking an exhasperated sigh. "Manners are all I have left."

Something passes between you and Simon. A look. A shared recognition of absurdity. You are sitting on alien sand, beneath an alien sky, next to a man who talks like he's hosting a podcast, and somewhere outside the dome, a rock spider is watching you with what you can only assume is fascination.

Outside the xenonite dome, Rocky turns to the other Eridian scientists.

"Statement," he says proudly. "Humans are doing the mating ritual."

The Eridians cheer.

Grace doesn't hear them.

And maybe that's for the best.

You sat cross-legged on a bench made of some impossibly dense, Xenonite composite material, watching Ryland fiddle with a laptop. His hair was a bird's nest of stress, a pencil was jammed behind his ear, and he was muttering under his breath about Astrophage cross-contamination metrics.

"Ryland," you said, leaning your head back against the wall. "I think your boyfriend is back."

"Rocky is not my boyfriend, we are science-allies," Ryland corrected automatically, not looking up from his screen. "And he said he was going to fetch a specialist in structural engineering to look at the fuel line blueprints. He should have been back twenty minutes ago."

A heavy, rhythmic thud-thud-thud echoed down the corridor. It was the distinct sound of Eridian motion—five-legged, heavy, and metallic. But as the door hissed open, it wasn't just Rocky’s familiar, bright carapace that stepped into the airlock. Behind him came another Eridian.

This one was… massive. Even by Eridian standards, where everyone looked like a sentient, five-sided boulder made of iron and basalt, this individual was imposing. Their carapace had a polished, almost glossy sheen to it, gleaming with deep, obsidian undertones.

Rocky practically bounced on his five legs, his vocoder chirping to life with a happy, musical series of notes. "Grace! [Name]! This is Oryx. Oryx is very good at big pipes. Best pipe-maker in Erid. Look, look!"

"Hi, Rocky," you waved, offering a tired smile. "Nice to meet you, Oryx."

Ryland finally looked up, his inner teacher instantly switching on. "Ah, Oryx! Welcome. We’ve been having some trouble with the pressure differentials in the main manifold. If you look at the—"

Ryland stopped.

Oryx hadn't moved toward the blueprints. Instead, the giant Eridian had slowly, deliberately rotated on their carapace was pointed directly at you. Then, with a slow, heavy tilt, they shifted their focus over to Ryland. Back to you. Back to Ryland.

A low, resonant hum began to vibrate through Oryx’s body. It wasn't the usual sharp, conversational clicking. It sounded like a massive pipe organ being played in a deep cave—a rich, rhythmic chord that literally rattled the fillings in your teeth.

You blinked, looking over at Ryland. "Is… is the structural engineer humming at us?"

"Maybe it's a greeting?" Ryland muttered, looking intrigued. He held up a hand. "Uh, hello, Oryx. We are humans. Meat-space-aliens. A-mi-gos."

Oryx didn't answer. Instead, they took three deliberate steps forward, crowding into your personal space. The sheer heat radiating from their iron-based biology felt like opening a preheated oven. You instinctively leaned back as a massive, clawed appendage reached out. But it didn't grab you. Instead, Oryx gently, incredibly gently, tapped the tip of one claw against your shoulder, and then duplicated the gesture on Ryland’s knee.

The organ-hum got louder, shifting into a jaunty, syncopated rhythm.

Rocky suddenly let out a sharp, panicked whistle. "Oryx! No! Bad! They are guests! They are friends! Do not do the rhythm!"

"They are magnificent," Oryx’s vocoder translated, though the tone came out in that flat, synthesized computer voice that contrast horribly with the absolute drama of their body language. "Look at their lack of carapace. So soft. So aerodynamic. Their skin moves when they breathe. Is highly erotic."

You froze. Ryland froze.

"I'm sorry," you said slowly, staring up at the giant, amorous space-rock. "Did the translator just say erotic?"

"Oryx is embarrassing!" Rocky clicked furiously, his legs clapping against the floorboards. "Oryx has strange mind! Oryx likes weird shapes! I told Oryx we are doing science, but Oryx said 'I want to see the squishy aliens from the cold star.' Oryx is pervert!"

Ryland’s mouth opened and closed like a landed carp. "I—we—we aren't… we're humans! We're made of water and carbon! We die if you drop us!"

"Water is beautiful solvent," Oryx hummed back smoothly. The giant Eridian then reached behind their back, where they had been holding a heavy, metallic container. With a flourish that felt remarkably like a suitor presenting a bouquet of roses, Oryx set the container down on the table right in front of you and Ryland.

They popped the latch. Inside was a pile of glowing, pulsing, radioactive-looking sludge. It smelled faintly of ammonia and burning rubber.

"I have brought you a gift of high-grade heavy metal isotopes," Oryx announced, their body tilting into what you could only assume was a seductive? stance. "Is was harvested from the deepest vents. Is very dense. Eat it and become strong for laying eggs."

You stared at the sludge. Then you looked at Ryland.

"Are you going to eat the courtship sludge, Ryland?" you asked, your voice trembling as you tried desperately to suppress a massive wave of hysterical laughter. "They think you need to get strong for egg-laying."

"I am not eating the radioactive heavy metals!" Ryland hissed, his face turning a brilliant shade of crimson. "And for the record, I don't lay eggs! Neither of us lay eggs!" He turned back to Oryx, waving his hands frantically. "Look, Oryx, thank you, really, it's very thoughtful. Very generous. But we can't digest this. It will literally liquefy our internal organs."

Oryx seemed to ponder this. The low hum changed keys, dropping into a sorrowful, minor chord. "A tragedy. So beautiful, yet so easily melted."

But Oryx was not a rock to give up easily.

For the next two hours, the "science meeting" turned into a bizarre, cross-species masterclass in courting. Oryx completely ignored the fuel line blueprints. Instead, they spent the entire time trying to impress the two bipeds.

First came the display of strength. Oryx casually picked up a three-ton piece of scrap machinery, hoisted it over their head with two limbs, and spun it around like a cheerleader’s baton, all while clicking a complex, rhythmic beat that Rocky informed you was an Eridian love ballad called "Your Density Inverts My Gravity."

You sat on the bench, chin in your hands, very entertained. "You know, Ryland, they’ve got great rhythm. And look at those metallic ridges. That’s a fine-looking specimen of a rock."

"Are you seriously checking out the alien?" Ryland snapped, though his eyes were bulging out wide as he watched Oryx effortlessly bend a steel bar into a neat, perfect heart shape. "They are a completely different phylum! They don't even have eyes!"

"I'm just saying, it's nice to be appreciated," you teased, leaning against his shoulder. "When was the last time you bought me high-grade isotopes or bent steel for me? I feel wooed."

"I built you a hydroponic salad bar!" Ryland protested, his voice cracking slightly.

Oryx suddenly dropped the steel heart on the floor with a loud CLANG. They scurried forward, stopping inches from the two of you. Before either of you could react, Oryx began to gently blow a stream of warm, highly filtered air from their exhalation vents directly over you both.

It felt like being stood in front of a giant, gentle hair dryer.

"Oh, wow," you mumbled, your hair blowing back. "That's actually kind of nice. Like a sauna."

"It is the scent of my home vent," Oryx explained softly. "It tells you that my territory is rich in sulfur and free of predatory molds. Come with me to my vent, squishy ones. I shall build you a nest of soft, fluffy blankets."

Ryland looked between you and the giant, vibrating alien. A deeply comical expression of sheer, unadulterated jealousy shadowed his face. He stood up, stepping squarely between you and Oryx, puffing out his chest in a display of human dominance that looked utterly ridiculous given that he was staring at an iron creature's midsection.

"Alright, look here, Oryx," Ryland said, putting his hands on his hips. "I appreciate the air-blowing and the lead blankets. Truly. But we are a package deal, and we are taken. We are partners. Comrades. Earth-mates. You can't just come in here with your high-density isotopes and try to steal us away to your sulfur vent!"

You bit your lip, trying so hard not to laugh that your ribs ached. Ryland Grace, savior of humanity, was currently picking a fight with an Eridian over who got to keep the humans.

Oryx tilted their body, processing Ryland's outburst. Then, the Eridian let out a sudden, high-pitched chirp.

"A joint territory defense!" Oryx gasped through the translator. "So fierce! So possessive! Your lack of a shell makes your anger look incredibly dramatic. I wish to be part of this collective. I shall be the third stone in your foundation."

Rocky groaned loudly, slapping his carapace with a claw. "Oryx, stop! You are making friends uncomfortable! They do not want to be a foundation! Go back to the pipe factory!"

"Wait," Ryland said, his brain stalling out. "Did they just propose a throuple?"

"I think they did," you laughed, finally breaking down into fistful of giggles. You stood up, walking around Ryland to pat Oryx’s warm, smooth carapace. "We're flattered, Oryx. Really. But human hearts are small, and we can only handle one disaster of a scientist at a time. We have to decline the nest."

Oryx stood perfectly still for a long moment. The organ-hum slowly faded into a quiet, disappointed click.

"The beautiful shapes have spoken," Oryx said mournfully. "I shall respect the boundaries of the fragile ones. But if your partnership crumbles like poor sandstone… think of the fluffy blankets."

With a dramatic, slow-motion turn, Oryx gathered up their radioactive sludge, gave one final, lingering hum in your direction, and shuffled out of the airlock, leaving a faint scent of sulfur and heartbreak in their wake.

The room fell silent. Rocky let out a long, exhausted whistle.

"I am sorry," Rocky said. "Oryx is very good engineer, but a very weird person."

"It's… fine, Rocky," Ryland breathed, rubbing his temples and sinking back into his chair. He looked over at you, his eyes narrowing slightly as you continued to chuckle. "You liked that a little too much."

"Oh, come on," you smiled, walking over and sliding onto his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck. "Are you honestly jealous of a five-legged space rock?"

Ryland huffed, burying his face in your shoulder, his arms winding tightly around your waist as if to prove a point to the empty doorway. "They offered you a fluffy nest. I can't compete with that kind of real estate."

"You don't have to," you murmured, kissing his cheek. "You're the only squishy alien for me."

can some1 pls request eva stratt x reader x ryland grace plsplsplsplspls 🙏🤧😞

“How are you feeling convict?” The voice hangs on that word, as though it feels out of place, “Ready to do some good?”

Does it matter? Whether this turns out to be helpful or not it gains him his freedom, that’s all that really counts. Yet he replies anyways, “Yeah.”

The voice turns back to procedural, he’d hardly recognized the shift. Speaking to him, it wasn’t the stern tone from before. It wasn’t drastic, whoever on the other end certainly wasn’t a friend, but it existed. It was nice, a sliver of empathy in this situation.

“Cruising depth in two minutes.”

Another jolt comes as the submarine continues downwards.

“There seems to be some voltage irregularities with the instruments so keep an eye out for sparks, flames, those kinds of things.” The shift in tone happens once more as the voice over the radio talks to him. But even that change can’t hide the fear the warning brings.

“Flames?” He speaks up, “Why would there be flames?”

A small sigh, then a response, “We don’t know, but I thought I should warn you.”

“You did test this thing, right?”

Another voice cuts through the line, it's irritated, and suddenly Simon realizes just how much warmth the other person possesses in comparison.

“This is the test. Now stop with the questions and focus on the mission.”

There’s a rustling on the other end as he assumes the microphone is being passed back. There’s a scoff, a muffled argument, and then the original speaker comes back.

“Sorry, that was our captain. She doesn’t really appreciate questions.”

“You aren’t the captain?”

A laugh, real, quiet, but real. And then, “No, I’m just the radio operator but don’t be fooled I’ve been here just as long as her and know just as much. I’ll be leading you through this.”

That’s helpful. At least he assumes it is.

“Okay, you’re approaching cruising depth. We’ve welded you in as tight as we can, and the ship is basically a tank, but be cautious about how deep you go. It can take some pressure but there’s a limit, the terrain is unpredictable but try not to wander too far into the red. Got it?”

“Yeah I understand.”

“Alright, there’s going to be several points where the radio cuts out. We don’t have a strong enough signal to reach everywhere you’ll be going, but I will do my best to stay with you as long as I can.”

He doesn’t know if he should be reassured or not. But judging from the fact that he has no clue what he’s doing, and whoever is speaking to him seems to, he chooses to be content with it.

“Closing porthole shielding.”

He watches as the glass in front of him is slowly covered, questions arising in his mind the longer he sits. “What is it exactly that I’m looking for? No one’s told me what it is.” He asks.

The captain’s voice comes back, harsher than before, “We don’t know. You’re the first one down, all we have are surface scans. Which is why you’re there.”

He turns to the control panel, it doesn’t look like rocket science, but some training sure would’ve been nice. The captain’s voice continues to disrupt his thoughts.

“You know we salvaged that glass from Filament Station? Not a scratch on it. Pretty lucky. Funny how some things survive and others don’t.”

It felt mocking, as if every word was chosen deliberately to bring him down. Luckily it isn’t long before the radio operator takes over.

“Approaching maximum depth. Find the coordinates on the map, document as instructed. You’re entering a dead zone so we won’t be able to reach you for a while. Good Luck.”

Some of the words get garbled because of what he assumes is a bad connection but there’s no time to focus on that. The sooner he starts this expedition the sooner he can be released.

The ship groans under the pressure of the sea, it echoes off the walls and makes everything feel hollow, empty. The sound reminds him that he’s alone, trapped at the bottom of an ocean, for god knows how long.

It’s the next day when the voice comes back.

“Convict? Are you there?”

There it is again, the evident distaste at how they refer to him, at what he is: a convict.

Simon hesitates at first, he knows what he’s doing, any distractions waste time he can spend on his mission. But whoever is on the radio is there to help, to inform, he has no reason not to respond.

“Yeah. I’m here.”

“Good,” they say, a short sigh coming with it, followed by a yawn.

“You sound tired.” He points out, unsure as to what this conversation is supposed to build towards. But he figures he might as well engage with it, it’s not like he gets any other interaction down here.

A chuckle mixes with the static of the speaker, “Thanks for noticing, I didn’t sleep much last night. I was too worried.”

Simon checks the angle of the submarine before he speaks again. “Worried? Why? Is something going wrong?”

“No, no, I mean nothing drastic,” the voice reassures, “It’s just that we were supposed to be able to make contact with you again yesterday and our signals never came through. I was worried something may have happened to you.”

That’s…confusing. Why would they be worried about him? Isn’t that the whole point of sending down a convict? Because they’re disposable?

“Me? Why would you guys be worried about me?”

It couldn’t have been that they were concerned for him. The photographs maybe or whatever evidence he’d gotten from being down here, but not him surely.

“Well they weren’t, not as much as they should’ve been anyway. I don’t know. I guess, for me, the idea of sending anyone into an unexplored ocean of blood is nerve wracking. I’d want them to come back safe, convict or not, we’re all people.”

He takes in every word, thinks them over, as if trying to find some kind of dishonesty. No one in the C.O.I. cares about the convicts, it’s that simple. And yet whoever was on the other end of this did care. They cared immensely from the sound of it. It’s strange, it’s been a long time since Simon could say someone cared about him.

“So you stayed up all night worrying about me?” He wonders aloud.

“Yeah, I guess I did.”

At least someone was looking out for him. But even so this conversation wasn’t furthering the mission in any way, which is what he assumed they were supposed to help with.

“Hey, so, when this oxygen meter hits the last light that means I still have like a quarter left right? That’s not zero is it?”

“Right.” The voice responds, “The ship has enough air to last one person a good while, but try to get the mission done soon. You don’t have a lifetime supply or anything.”

Good to know. He’d wished he’d known it sooner, but that was the case for basically everything.

“I’ve found some interesting stuff down here,” he continues, “I don’t know if you guys can see any of it but I think you should take a look.”

“The photos upload to us after a little while, how close are you to completing the mission?”

So they can see what he’s found, interesting.

“I have a few spots left to investigate but hopefully it’ll be over soon.”

“I’ll make sure to add that to my report. You’ve done some good work, I’ll check in again soon but keep it up.”

With that the line cuts out and he’s left alone again. He thought these conversations were supposed to be about information and nothing more, so why is it that without that voice the submarine feels darker than before?

Whatever, it doesn’t matter, the voice will be back again soon but the ocean that surrounds him isn’t going anywhere. He has to seek out his assignment or he’ll never be free. He needs to focus, and not on the sudden loneliness the silence brings.

By the time the voice comes back it’s the least of his worries. A skeleton unmarked on the map, the ship shaking, everything feels unstable. He’s ready to leave, freedom be damned. He just wants to live.

The voice fills the space, it's nervous, falling over their words as they rush to check in with him. “Hello? Are you okay? What happened? What’s your status?”

He groans, being flung around in a tight space doesn’t feel great, “I’m here.” He mumbles, pushing himself up.

“Okay…okay.” They breathe a sigh of relief, “Is the ship damaged at all? What happened?”

“I don’t know,” he replies.

A disagreement comes from the other line, what he makes out of it is someone concerned about the ship's hull integrity, and the other is concerned about him. Eventually one voice, which he assumes is the radio operator, gives up and the captain’s voice takes their place.

“Convict, is the ship damaged? Is the hull okay?”

“I don’t know! You never told me anything would be down here!”

“Is there a problem with the ship? We have to know before we send you back down.”

Back? What does that mean? No way in hell was he going back after experiencing that.

“No fucking way! I’m done! Bring me back up, throw me in prison, I don’t fucking care! I’m not doing this.”

He starts to get angry, talking over every point the captain tries to make, ignoring everything that comes over the radio. Ignoring everything until it turns back to the operator's voice. “Hey, hey!” They start, gaining his attention, “I need you to calm down and listen to me, okay?”

“I’m done.” He mumbles again.

“Alright, we can talk about that in a minute. I need you to investigate the ship for hull damage, because if you fell, and if there’s damage, that means leaks. And leaks mean you die. So, can you please calm down and look?”

He takes a breath, listening and looking around. No alarms go off, no blood floods in, everything seems stable, everything except himself. “Yeah,” he hesitates, “everything seems fine. I think.”

“Okay,” they say, a breath of relief is hidden as they pull away from the microphone. A mumbled conversation comes from the other side as the situation is relayed to everyone above, “We’re going to check on your progress well everything settles.”

“Settles?”

“Remember what I said about the terrain? How its unpredictable? That’s because it isn’t rock, it’s not solid, just congealed blood and some gas bubbles.” Behind their words is some kind of chaos, overlapping voices, speaking about who knows what. But the radio operator stays on the line with him. “Are you okay? A shift like that can damage the hull but also the people inside the sub, any injuries?”

“Maybe a few bruises.” He speaks up, looking himself over.

“Nothing's broken?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Good.”

Something about their tone, their voice, their words, is comforting. Maybe it has something to do with being down here alone for so long. Or maybe they’re genuinely growing on him, either way he couldn’t think of any one else he’d want on the other side of this right now.

Though just as soon as that realization comes the captain’s voice takes over the line once more. “Convict, did you find a skeleton?”

“Yeah.” He mumbles.

A conversation is still held on the other end, orders are given, questions are asked, but eventually the attention is directed back to him. “Convict, are you absolutely sure it was a skeleton?”

“I mean, yeah, I’ve seen a skeleton before. How stupid do you think I am?”

Silence for a moment. Not even a sound comes from the radio before her voice comes back.

“We’re pulling you up. Standby.”

The ship shakes, moves, and he’s tossed around a bit more as garbled words take over the other end of the radio.

The next interaction he has is face to face, the porthole shield lowers and in front of him is the captain. Questions are asked, answers are given, and she turns to discuss with her crew. But the decision is made to send him back down.

“You’re not listening to me!” He argues, “There’s something else!”

She turns back to him, analyzing his desperation.

“It’s not like I don’t want the deal, I want it. But it’s not worth it. Not for me, and not for you.” He reasons, “You’re not hearing me when I say there’s something else. Something alive.” Simon takes a minute, thinks over his words, what he knows, who he knows. “Where is the radio operator? I want to talk to them, they’ll understand.”

“No can do.” The captain responds, “This is my crew, and you report to me, this isn’t a call you get to make. You’re going back down. We’re putting an attachment on the front, all you have to do is point it in the right direction, it should grab on to something.”

“So what do I do? Just ram it?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

An argument ensues, this isn’t right. He’s done his part, he’s done more than his part. They need to uphold their end of the deal. And they just aren’t listening.

But the camera, the x-ray, wasn’t his fault. He didn’t know. They couldn’t have expected him to.

“Drop him.”

And it was done, quickly, without any adjustments or hesitations. It jostled the sub and tossed him down. A voice came over the radio, a new one, unfamiliar. “Calmed down yet? You can’t be too upset, not after the stunt you pulled.”

Simon groans as he pushes himself up from the ground, “Who are you? Where’s the operator? I want to talk to them.”

“No can do. They’re helping to take Jack, you know that guy you irradiated? To the medical staff, so you’re stuck with me.”

Great, sent back down to hell with an unfamiliar navigator and a death wish of an objective. Whatever, get the sample, get out, and then he’s free, surely.

No matter what some fucked up message from another pilot says. He’s making it out of here alive.

A voice cuts through the static after his discovery of a missing skeleton. This time it’s familiar, welcoming, at least the operator is back, not everything has gone wrong.

“Hello?” They start.

“Hello? Can you hear me?”

“Yes, yes I can hear you. What’s going on?” They ask.

“You mean why am I moving away from where the skeleton is supposed to be?”

“That among many other things, but we’ll start there.”

He takes in a deep breath, analyzing the map against the control panel. “This is going to sound made up.” He murmurs, “But the skeleton is gone.”

“Gone?”

“I’m at the coordinates but all it is is a big hill. Maybe it got buried, I don’t know.”

“Hold on.” The voice disappears for a few moments, and he waits. A few pictures are taken, to double check or just to pass the time, he isn’t sure which. “We’re picking up something a few meters ahead of you.” The voice chimes back in, “Just keep heading that way.”

“Roger that.” He says, and silence overtakes the sub once more. Condensation builds on the walls and drips down to the floor. “Can I just ask something?”

“Fire away.”

“Why is it so damn hot in here?”

There’s a laugh somewhere on the other side, “I’m not completely sure. I bet there isn’t any kind of air circulation or conditioning in the sub so that probably has something to do with it. But also an ocean of blood is warmer than one of water so it’s likely the heat from outside is affecting the inside as well.”

Simon groans in response, that means there’s no way to fix it. Not besides removing a few layers. The movement must catch the attention of the operator because now they take their turn to ask a question. “What are you doing?”

“What do you mean? I’m still heading towards the skeleton?”

“Yeah, but all I can hear is rustling on your end. Is everything okay?”

He laughs gently, “Yeah, everything’s fine. I’m just taking off a few layers. If there’s nothing I can do to fix the heat I could at least try that.”

“I guess that’s true.” They start, “But you’re not like completely stripping down, right?”

He laughs then, fully, for the first time in a long time. “No,” he reassures after a moment, “No, we haven’t reached that point quite yet.”

“Good. Because if we pulled you up after this and you were completely naked it would be quite the first impression.” They give, sharing in his soft laughter.

“First impression? Does that mean I’m actually going to get to meet you when they pull me back up?”

There’s a silence on the other end, a quiet internal debate. “Yeah.” They respond finally, “You’ll get to meet me. And I’ll get to meet you.”

Simon can’t help the smile that comes to his face, the thought is nice, something new to look forward to. Until it’s interrupted by the controls beeping, warning of an upcoming obstacle.

The skeleton. Right. The mission.

But the picture is wrong, this isn’t how it was before. And no amount of ground shifting could have caused it.

“What do you mean?” They ask.

“It just doesn’t look right.”

“Okay, well,” they hesitate, “can you still get a sample?”

He looks over the picture again, “Probably. But this doesn’t feel right.”

“I know, I know. But if you come back without a sample they’ll send you right back down. So just, gather what you can, they’ll have to deal with that.”

“Then I’m free?” He asks.

“Yeah, then you’re free.” They reassure.

And hearing it then, from them, a direct answer. Fills his chest with something lighter than hope. If this is really it. If this is all he has to do. To be free, to meet whoever’s been leading him through this, it’s well worth it. But there’s something else, one other worry that plagues him. “Even after what I did? With the radiation?” He worries aloud.

“That wasn’t your fault, besides you upheld your part of the deal. It’s time for us to do the same.” They reassure.

“I am sorry. I never meant for that to happen.” He continues.

“I know. I don’t blame you.” They start, their words catching, as if they want to say something more, dig a bit deeper, expose more of themself to him. But instead, “Let’s get this over with, yeah?”

He sits back down, staring at the controls, “So what? I just ram into this thing at full speed?”

“I guess so. I’m no engineer but the hull is expertly welded, it’ll hold, and it should take most of the impact. So just go for it.”

He sucks in a breath, nothing about this seems thought out, but it’s the quickest way to being a free man. So he pushes forward, the coordinates spike up, the lights blink faster. There’s an impact, and then? Nothing.

“I think I got it.” He speaks up, hesitant.

“Are you sure?”

“Let me check.” He backs up and takes a picture. Nothing much has changed aside from a hole in the jaw. “I think I got it, there’s a hole in the jaw.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, at least I’m pretty sure.”

“Okay, good.” A conversation is muffled on the other end before the voice comes back, “Hold onto something, we’re bringing you up. See you on the other side.”

The line cuts off into static and he sighs, he’s finally done. He glances back to the picture. Looking it over, but in the top corner, hidden behind the skeleton is a blur of something else.

He tries to speak up, to warn them, but it’s too late. They begin pulling him up.

“Hold on! Something else is down there!”

The voice cuts back in, “What do you mean “something else”? Something alive? Are you sure?”

“Yes! Yes! It was looking directly at me.”

He hears a gasp on the other end, but it’s the least of his worries as the sub begins to rock and resist ascending.

“Something’s got me!”

“Okay hold on!” The operator says, and he overhears an argument between them and the captain. They want to cut the line, release the sample, save him. But the captain argues the sample is too necessary to lose. The argument fades away as the sub rocks harder, flinging him against the walls once more, knocking him out cold.

By the time he wakes everything is dark, echoing with groans from the hull, it's eerily more lonesome than before.

He can’t keep track of how much time passes, not between mapping his area, discovering things he shouldn’t, and having experiences beyond belief. No, time is the least of his worries.

When he finally makes contact with someone again, it isn’t right, it isn’t true, it isn’t real. A light of hope given to him just to be extinguished in the end. Perhaps it was symbolic, a look into what lies ahead for him.

He’s abandoned, alone, besides the creatures that have clawed their way into his mind. The things he’s seen, heard, and lived are everything but true. Or perhaps they are real, and everything outside of what exists miles deep in an ocean of blood is what’s false.

His mind can’t keep up, his heart races, trying to come up with anything to keep him sane. And that’s when he hears it.

The voice that’s guided him for so long. Through the dreary darkness of this sea, and into the light of their words. The radio operator from before. The only one to care, to empathize, to make him laugh in such a dire time.

“Hello?”

But how could he believe it’s real, how could he buy into that after everything? What if it’s just his mind playing tricks? Attempting to give him exactly what he wants before it’s finally over.

“Is that really you?”

Maybe it’s better not to respond. To ignore it until it passes. Maybe that’s what he should’ve done before.

“Are you there?”

But it’s so much easier to allow yourself to snap under the weight of it all, “Stop fucking with me.” To let it out on whoever crosses your path, real or not. “I’m done, I’m done being fucked with. The radio is broken, you aren’t there, you aren’t you.”

The line goes quiet, contemplating, but the person on the other side continues. “I don’t understand how you survived. It’s been days, you should’ve run out of oxygen ages ago.” The voice chokes up from gentle sobs, he’s alive, somehow.

There’s a rage that builds within the submarine, a rage that builds within him. “What did I do in the hangar?”

“What?”

“What did I do? How many people were there?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Just tell me!” He pushes.

“Three! Okay? And you used the camera which blasted them with an immense amount of radiation.” The voice steadies, “How are you alive?”

“You’re lying,” he continues. This isn’t real, not after everything else, “It’s not possible.” The radio is unbroken, still completely intact. But how could that be true? “What’s my name?” He whispers, a broken kind of whisper. The kind that reveals damage, but only to those who care to look, and they were certainly that kind.

“I’m so sorry,” they hesitate, stumbling over their words, “I don’t think I ever asked for your name.”

“You sent me down here to die without even knowing my name.”

The sentence is painful, mostly because it holds the truth, “I never wanted you to die. I don’t think that they cared, and I should’ve spoken up for you, I should’ve tried harder, but I don’t want you to die. I never have.” That’s true too, at least he thinks it is. They’ve only ever shown compassion, only ever tried to help. But even so he’s still trapped. “Look, I don’t know how you’re alive. We all thought you died days ago, I mean you shouldn’t have enough oxygen for this. I’m glad you’re still here. But how are you still alive?”

“I really don’t know, I don’t know. But I think I’ve done enough. I just want to go home.” He begs.

“I know,” the voice cuts in, calm, caring, “just hold on. Let me talk to everyone and we’ll come up with a plan.”

He tries to compose himself as he listens in, hearing only a dispute on the other side but not being able to make any of it out. He assumes it’s between the operator and the captain, as usual, which means it can’t be anything good. It seems harsher than usual, more intense in the way it carries on. Whatever is happening, whoever is arguing, neither is backing down.

After a long while of muffled arguing someone finally speaks to him again. This time it’s the captain, “Convict?”

“Yeah. I’m here. So what’s the plan? How am I getting out of here?”

The line goes quiet and then, “I don’t think that’s going to be possible.”

It’s a punch to the gut. After everything, all that he’s gone through, all that he’s learned, he’s just another sacrifice they’ve chosen to make. “Not worth it”. Never enough, not until he has what they really want. Information. Information from SM8 that they couldn’t recover otherwise.

It’s foolish that this is what it takes. What it takes for them to care enough about him. But it works and the deal is made.

But it goes wrong, so wrong, even in comparison to everything he’s already gone through. More blood is claimed to the sea, whispers turn to screams, and he’s faced with a choice bigger than himself.

When he returns from the crawl space, drenched in blood with the black box in hand, the radio operator’s voice greets him. “Hello? Are you there? What’s going on?”

Even with the desperation that laces it, the concern in the tone, the nervousness behind each word, it still takes a weight off his shoulders. Let’s him breathe as if it’s his first and last time.

“Hey.” He greets simply, slipping to the floor to fasten the life vest around the black box.

“Oh my gosh, you’re alive.” The anxiety fades into relief, “I was so worried, what happened? Where did you go?”

“The crawl space, I needed to get something important.”

“Okay, well, are you alright? The thirty minutes is almost up, are you at the meeting point?”

“I don’t,” he hesitates, choking on his words as if he himself doesn’t want to believe it, “I don’t think there is a meeting point. I don’t think I’m getting out of here. I don’t think I was ever supposed to.”

“What? What do you mean?” The anxiety comes back in a wave of concern and questions. Questions he can’t answer.

“Can you, just talk to me? Please.” His voice is tight, close to tears. And it melts away everything else entirely.

“Yeah,” they respond carefully, “I can do that. What do you want to talk about?” It’s kind, gentle, so much of the little he’s felt in life. It’s all here, from a stranger. No, not a stranger, but someone who’s turned into something far more.

“Tell me about yourself. We never shared our names, I’m Simon.”

“Simon,” you test the name on your tongue, and it feels more natural than anything you’ve ever said. In turn you introduce yourself. You don’t know what’s happening, not in the safety of your spacecraft. But you care enough to stay, to console him. “What else do you want to know?”

“What do you look like?” His voice cuts in, “I don’t want to die without imagining it.”

That’s a hard one, how do you describe yourself to someone? What would he notice first? What would he care to know?

“Well, I’m wearing this shitty required uniform from the C.O.I. that looks exactly like everyone else’s. Because apparently individuality is a sin around here.” His laugh comes in, it’s soft, perfect. You’d only heard it once or twice but you’d never get over the way it made you feel. You think for a moment, and remember the files aboard the ship, “Simon, next to your chair is some binders. In the blue one is an overlook of everyone you may speak to on your mission. If you find my last initial you’ll see my page, and a picture of me. You won’t have to imagine anything.”

You hear movement, slow, deliberate. Then pages turning over until that too stops. The line is quiet, and you aren’t sure what to make of it.

You don’t see how he’s mesmerized by your smile, how his fingers trace the edge of the photo like it’s sacred. And maybe in this moment, maybe to him, it is.

“You’re beautiful.”

Your heart skips a beat. It’s genuine, full of an adoration you’ve never heard before. And you aren’t quite sure how to respond. Luckily he speaks up again.

“Have you ever seen me?”

You look at the files on your desk, and the first thing to meet you is his mugshot, then medical records, and several other reports of either photographs with him or words about him. Since the beginning of this expedition you were supposed to know him inside and out, not personally, not as a human, but as a criminal. But even still it didn’t take away how you felt, how he made you feel.

“Yeah, I’ve seen you.”

“What do you think? Someone you’d maybe let take you on a date?”

“A date?” You chuckle, “Where would we go? There aren't many places since the quiet rapture.”

“I’ve never liked the idea of something flashy anyway, I’d much rather just talk with you. Maybe make dinner together. Simple, sweet, easy. As long as it’s with you it wouldn’t matter.” He explains.

“That sounds nice.”

You smile, it really does. And if you close your eyes tight enough. If you shut out everything besides him. You can almost see it, the two of you, together. You don’t realize that he’s doing the exact same thing.

“You never answered my question, would you even go with me?”

“I would, you look like someone I’d be happy with, really happy. ”

You hear him sigh, grateful to hear your true feelings.

“If I’m going to die,” He speaks up again, “I think you deserve to know, that I think I’m in love with you.” He laughs at his own words, as if realizing how unbelievable it sounds.

You suck in a breath, “Simon.” You gasp out, voice tight.

“And I know that’s crazy to say considering we’ve never met face to face. But you’re the only person that’s ever made me feel like me. Not The Butcher, or The Convict, just Simon. So, I love you.”

You hear the ship groan on the other side, something is causing movement, something is coming. You hear as he moves around, preparing himself.

You don’t see how he tucks your picture close to himself, don’t see how he struggles against the blood ocean overtaking the sub. Or how he gives one last smile at your choked out, “I love you too.”

All you hear is the silence that comes after. There’s no static, no radio to pick up on, there’s no one on the other end. Just you, alone, and the memory of a man you’ve never even met.

Falling in love with a voice isn’t the best decision one could make. It’s a hopeless feat. But when that voice is the only thing to bring light to the darkness of yourself, you stop caring about how realistic the end goal is. Especially when surrounded by a vast ocean of blood and they exist as your only salvation.

I had this idea since I first watched the movie but honestly I don’t know how to feel about the final product. I’m most definitely going to revisit this if Iron Lung comes out on streaming or physically because I’m sure I can make this better if I could analyze the movie. This is actually based on the several times I’ve gone to see it, so it should be pretty accurate. In fact one time was solely dedicated to making sure this followed the plot well enough. So hopefully you guys enjoy this belated Valentine’s gift, I’m also working on requests right now but that’s a whole separate thing.