Chapter Text
Simon had known something was wrong by the time his second oxygen indicator light turned off. The warm humming in his bones and around the ship, pressing against top of his head to the soles of his feet. He knew something was wrong the same way he always had in Eden.
It had nagged at him at the start, the dull thrumming feeling, but as shit started hitting the fan it felt less and less important. After all, in Eden that creeping dread meant pain, and he'd been faced with enough of it.
(His hands were just a bit too small for the handles, the sub just a bit too tall. The calendar in the corner of the computer mocked him, the ugly 12 stamped into the corner of the month glaring up at him with every flash of the button)
It was probably the dehydration, or the paranoia, or the claustrophobia. It didn't matter that old memories that used to only haunt him started to feel more and more like hollowed out wounds, or that the isolation and hate from the Captain's voice felt like knives in his spine, rather than the dull ache of before.
(It didn't matter that he felt more helpless then he had in years, that he felt like a scared stupid kid again)
It didn't matter, because he was still stuck in this hell hole, and that feeling was the only reason he mentioned the other ship-sub-thing. The only reason he had his new deal was to get out, and to be free.
(He was trying so hard to ignore the way his hands shook at the idea of it, not in excitement but fear- because then he would be alone again in a bigger ship of steel, with the faces of the people he irradiated- god he killed them didn't he? They were going to die because of him.)
He had a deal and he was going to get out.
His hands shook as he watched the downloading screen load (was it always that large?) and shook harder as he pushed the handle again.
The glass of the pendant sat in his hand. It was a little sprout- he wasn’t sure when it had sprouted. Somewhere between The Light and Ava's transmission. He didn’t want to see The Light again, he didn’t want to see that thing again, he wanted to stand on solid ground and breathe air that didn't smell like iron and see more than a foot in front of his face.
The voices of the thing had begun again almost as soon as the upload had finished. His whole body ached, the dull thrumming pain spiking his different places down his arms and legs.
They begged and screamed and pressed and yelled and promised that he wasn't getting out. That Ava was lying.
The stink of copper began to enter the space, streams of the thick dark liquid falling down the seams. It hit his face, running down in harsh boiling cuts down his face as he tried not to cry.
The bandages peeled back to reveal the same boiling mess of flesh and blood, the voices of The Light screaming and screaming behind him
Simon was a strong person. He was told he was.
“We are Eden, Simon. From our bodies, more trees will grow. The bodies of our boys will be the soil our trees crave to live,” two of Father's fingers rested under Simon's chin, pressing his face upwards to look at him, “We are Eden, and we are strong.”
“But what if I'm not?” The whisper had felt like a confession, Father's eyes hardening as though it had been.
“We are Eden, and therefore we are strong. Our bodies become the soil for our trees, we must be strong to make it so- to join the holy ones in death,” the fingers turned to a vice grip on his jaw, pulling his face close enough that he could feel Father's breath on his face, “If you are not strong, you're soil is weak, and you are no Brother of Eden. Tell me Simon, what fate lies with those who choose to stand far away from our tree's shade?”
He looked into Father's eyes, the barely disguised disgust plaguing his rust-coloured irises.
“We use them as the blood to water our soil with.”
“S- zz- m- i- on- zz- imon!”
He blinked, the stink of rust filling his nose as he blinked away the irises that matched the slow growing drip that filled the cracks of the sub. It took him a second longer to register the crackling voice on the radio.
“Si- zz- mon!”
“Ava?” His voice came out strained and high, and he flinched at the sound.
“Simon there's- zz- some- zz- thing I need you to grab- zz- and get out safely- zz-” He flinched.
Another thing? He had to do something else?
(YOU WILL NEVER LEAVE)
A wet sob curled from his lips as his skin ached and pulsed. Ava's voices cracked over the radio as the roar of the thing screeched behind him, yelling and yelling and yelling-
(SHE WAS NEVER GOING TO LET YOU OUT)
He wasn’t getting out was he?
(YOU WILL DIE DOWN HERE)
He was going to die here.
(THE LIGHT MUST BE FORGOTTEN)
“Simon- zz- please- z- I know I'm so- rry-”
He was going to die here with the air boiling his lungs and the blood soaking through the iron of the hull.
His knees hit the floor, pain shooting through them as blood pressed against them like salt in a wound.
“You said I could leave,” his voice cracked on the word, a sob curling around the syllable, “You said I could leave Ava!”
He sounded small, he felt small. The burning in his bones and muscle and skin was tearing him up, pressing and clawing at him.
(SHE LIES)
It was so loud.
“Simon- zz- please. I'm so sorry, we're trying hard- zz- but we need that box- zz- we're coming. We just- zz- need you to hold the- zz- black box.”
The voice pressed against his ears, it was warming then the ones screaming around him.
He felt like he was burning and freezing and itching as his skin crawled out of him. Feet trying to get away from him as he pressed them into the burning aching bloody wound that was the crawlspace. His face burned with his body as he forced himself under.
His shoulders barely hit the sides as he wrapped a hand around the heavy box and pulled.
The gasp of air pressed into his lungs felt like breathing through water, staining his lungs with a layer of the liquid that had his coughing and crying.
He stood. The voices screamed, some buzzing with static and other cracking with a choking gargle, not unlike the sound of his breathing.
His fingers pressed onto the smooth surface of the life jacket, and the ship jerked. Metal hit to bone, and his head throbbed with his arm. Pain poured through his hand as the iron seemed to hold it and burn, the dark thick tendrils pressing and tearing the flesh.
Sobbing, he kicked and flailed. A dull thud of feet hitting iron pipe, his vision blurred with sparks of white agony as the pressure in his arm released.
The floor burned to his back, his eyes trying to focus on anything in the red-tinged blackness.
His palm met with the stump of his arm and all he could do was sob and flail for the box.
The solid metal- the cold hard metal in a seal of sloshing hot thick blood that choked down his throat and coated his insides. The reason they were coming for him.
Hard straight lines met broken boiled bloodied flesh as he pulled, pressed it to his middle. The box thrummed through his chest like a heartbeat.
Simon was not strong.
“I'm getting tired of your insolence, boy!” Father's screamed, harsh spikes of pain blooming at the same time as the crack of the whip.
He never had been good at believing.
He didn’t want to die but he was not strong.
“The Butcher falters? Now? God damn, you've gone soft on us you piece of shit!” A harsh kick to his small ribs. Tears rolling down his face as whimpers form in his throat.
He felt so small.
“You're 30 now son! How does that feel?” Brother smiled at him. He didn’t feel 30. “Don’t worry, no one ever feels COI 30, they make that shit up,” a clap on the back and a spike of pain through the bandages, “too-long years, huh? Fucking with their heads.”
“We’re- zz- here- br- ace- zz- ce!”
The hull jerked. Metal smashed into his head and chest, tears rolled down his face as hot burning blood hit his face.
The voices screamed, yelling and shouted and demanding as he fought through the agony of being boiled. His arm tightened around the box.
The hull tilted and pulled, his body flying back and slamming into the button. Bright light flashed in his eyes.
He didn’t know if it was pain or an image.
Up, choking on the congealing fluid in his lungs and the blood running down his throat. Sobbing on the tears and thick rust-toned fluid as it covered his eyes and forced its way into him.
It felt like years, choking and boiling and sobbing until the hull jerked once again. His body slid downwards, hitting the control panel with a sick thud that had his ribs screaming.
He coughed, his abdomen constricting as it forced the vomit and blood out of his stomach.
There was a sound, like water running down a drain. Thick and gurgling as it ran. His arms ached.
There was another movement under him, sending him off the panel and onto the floor. He could feel the squishy liquid under him beginning to drip away, leaving him on the boiling floor.
Noises began to fill the outside. His body spasmed, with a sob, crusted blood and vomit flooded his tongue and the floor, scorching the inside of his throat and lungs.
“Simon? Simon- zz- are you- zz- alive?” The voice was nice. He was so tired. “We're- zz- cutting through the- zz- welding now- zz- don't be- zz- alarmed.”
A loud sound, not unlike the flies that used to fly around his head in the nursery or the hum of electrical circuits, began to fill the room. He forced one of his eyes open, prying it open through the layers of dried filth. The sparking light burned his retinas, piercing through the dark like tiny spot lights. He groaned, pressing his eyes shut.
“Simon?- zz- do you copy? Simon- zz- we're coming in now- zz- do you copy?” A loud bang followed. He whined at the noise, flinching away from it. Voices piled in, filling the space with chatting that made his wars ring.
“Dear god-”
“What the actual fuck?”
“Holy shit he actually got the box-”
“Why's he so fucking small?”
“Holy crap!”
“I'm gonna be sick-”
“We need to get him to the med bay-”
Hands wrapped around his arms- warm safe soft hands- and pulled him up, up, up-
Whines fell from his throat as they peeled the box out of his arms.
“Shhh, you're safe now,” a voice whispered as he was moved forward.
His abdomen tightened, and he let out a sob as more of the thick hot vomit scorched his throat and poured out of his mouth. He could hear the soft thwumps as it hit the floor.
Suddenly he was going down, his knees hitting the icy tiled floor with a thud that sent shockwaves of pain up his legs into his hips.
He didn’t realize he was crying until hands wiped the tears off his face. “We need to get you clean honey, you'll be okay.”
Hands ran down his body for a moment, before a harsh tug sent a shoot of pain down his spine. He whined, pulling away before more hands stopped him. The tugging got worse, pulling and tearing off layers of cloth and boiled tissue alike.
Hands carded through his hair and whispered sweet nothings as the pain crested and dulled. Whispered that they were just removing his clothing so they could clean him.
There was a squeak, then a rushing sound, before tiny cold knives slammed against his back. Sobs curled out of his throat as they dug into the broken raw meat that was his flesh, racking and clawing through it like gnashing teeth.
Soft hands began to rub through his hair as a cloth was run against his back, even softer voices apologizing softly for every wince and cry the knives pulled from his throat.
At some point the pain began to dull. The voices grew softer and quieter as well, soft whispers of “Good job” and gentle explanations as they moved his limbs.
The knives had turned to a drizzle of warm water, making his limbs feel heavy and his brain feel foggy. The voices were murmuring to each other now, gently tilting his head as he pressed his face into the hands. He was so tired. The soft thrumming of sleep begging him downwards.
He was safe now.
He could sleep.