Pairing: Bloodymary || Simon (Iron Lung) x Ryland Grace (PHM) || 16.9k word total, ongoing fic
Summary:
So, dead or alive? Abandoned or absolved? What was he– Simon the Convict, Simon the Butcher– against this backdrop of blackness? Nothing? Everything? Inconsequential? Pivotal? Thoughts eddy through his mind until he is drowning in them.
Until he hears a noise.
A sound that takes shape and defies his muddled understanding of his current existence. Wavelengths that weave the shredded actuality of Simon back into something whole, something that very nearly makes sense.
A voice.
~OR~
En route to Erid, Ryland Grace pulls Simon out of a blood soaked Iron Lung. Simon doesn't know what's real, what to believe, what to trust. Grace is kind and gentle and Simon wants so badly to be safe. But whatever put him in Grace's path to begin with doesn't seem to be done with him yet.
Notes: what if i told you i was blasting 'animal i have become' by three days grace while i wrote this?
read on ao3 from the start HERE
CH 9: Butcher or Bane?
The nightmares are getting worse. And Simon can't hide it. Not when he spends night after night thrashing against his pillow, his blankets tangling around him in an ever tightening noose.
In tonight's dream, Simon's copper tainted tongue is twisted around tuberous strands stringing down his throat. His esophagus is filled to bursting, his stomach a hollow vessel waiting to be sowed.
And the voice whispers, Butcher… Convict… you gave your flesh to them and they gave you thankless abandon. Are I not a generous god? You gave your flesh to me and I gave you watchful freedom.
Simon's scream is torn up by the roots, left dangling grotesquely from his throat when he finally blinks awake. Hail Mary’s dim lighting illuminates Ryland Grace in a halo of relief, an angel waiting to beckon Simon back from the gates of hell.
Grace passes Simon a cup of water. His expression is helpless and concerned.
Simon grabs the glass gratefully, taking large swigs to dilute the phantom taste of blood staining his gums.
“Rocky watch Simon and Grace sleep. But Rocky see no threat.”
Simon feels bad for the Eridian trying so hard to protect the humans while they sleep. Grace had explained how important of a custom this was to Eridians.
“I appreciate it, Rocky. But this isn't that kind of threat,” Simon grunts, swinging his legs off the side of the cot. “I'm gonna take a walk.”
Light footsteps pad behind him on the metal floor. A glance over his shoulder reveals a sleep rumpled Grace several paces back. One socked foot rubs against the instep of the other as he stands there waiting for Simon to speak.
“Why are you following me?”
Simon admonishes himself when Grace visibly flinches at his harsh tone.
“Oh, I, uh, thought this might be the kind of walk you'd want, um, company for.” Grace crosses an arm over his chest, scratching absently at the flesh just above his elbow. “Sorry if that was presumptuous. I can go back.”
Simon slicks his tongue over his teeth searching for any sign of a metallic tang. “No. Stay.”
Grace smiles faintly. “Wanna go to the theater?”
That's what Grace and Rocky call the room with the wall of screens. The room where Simon was brought to his knees by the swell of ocean waves and the easy kindness with which Ryland Grace gave them to him.
The duo loved it there. Grace would enthusiastically explain countless Earth movies and Rocky would commentate on the bizarreness of Earthlings.
Simon was inclined to agree with the Eridian. He found it painfully trying to sit through an entire movie. The luxury of two hours to simply sit in one position and indulge did not exist in Simon's world. And the people on the screen's problems were either so unbearably miniscule to Simon or overwhelmingly evocative.
Grace's fingernail is still drawing circles on his arm.
“Sure. Let's go to the theater.”
Grace scoops up a laptop on their way and in answer to Simon's inquisitive eyebrow explains, “I had an idea. Um, a better one than the last time I had an idea in there though.” He bites his lip, drawing Simon's eye. “I think. You know what I'll just tell you what my idea is. I don’t know why I'm being cryptic. Mysteriousness was never my thing.” His laughter pings off the walls. “I thought it might be nice to see the stars.”
Simon glances in the general direction of Hail Mary's porthole. “I've seen the stars.”
“That's… a good point. But… do you maybe want to see them on a really big tv?” Grace casts a side-long peek in Simon's direction.
Humor marches to the corner of Simon's mouth and heaves it up on its back. After the Quiet Rapture, nothing on Eden made Simon smile, not even his mother. The constant consuming panic at most of the universe’s destruction had squashed any mirth Simon may have felt into the blunt-lipped scowl of an angry man. Simon didn't want to be angry around Grace. And Grace made it feel like it was actually possible to experience another mood, a different state of being.
“Yeah, I'd like to see the stars on a really big tv.”
Grace's smile breaks wide over orderly rows of white teeth. Everything about him is so well cared for, so pristine. Simon wouldn't be the least bit surprised to find that where his own chest is marred by misfortune, Grace's chest was smooth and unblemished.
Abruptly, Simon lengthens his strides, leading the way to the theater.
Grace folds himself onto the floor in the center of the room and sets his computer atop his lap. “I came across this video the other day that must be educational material or something. It shows you how to identify a bunch of constellations.”
His fingers fly across the keyboard. Soon the static dim light of empty screens softens to a deep obsidian, littered with pinpricks of impossible light. Simon didn't know if he could ever get used to a world with stars again, with life.
The Brotherhood of Eden believed that humanity was lost and their only hope was to nurture the Last Tree, no matter the cost. When the last child of Eden joins the grove, trees will grow by the thousands. Every last person on Eden was meant to die under a starless sky, decompose for a world that would allegedly flourish without them.
Yet, here was Simon. Kneeling on the ground beside a man brimming with life, a profusion of starlight surrounding them, inside and out. Sometimes he can't tell what shines more radiantly, the burning gas outside or Ryland Grace. Simon has brought a crimson flood into this untarnished world. He's drenched the starlight around them in an ocean of blood and Grace doesn't even seem to realize it.
“Okay, so that one!” Grace’s shoulder bumps against Simon’s as he raises a finger to outline a cluster of stars glowing a little brighter than the ones around it. “Is the big dipper. That one’s easy to find, as long as you know which direction is north.”
He continues moving through the video, narrating excitedly as the video highlights various star clusters. His shoulder is still pressed to Simon’s, his head tipped so far towards him as he studies the night sky that Simon would only have to angle his own just so to rest against Grace’s crown of blond hair. Would Simon sleep better like that?
He shakes off the thought and leans back on his elbows, breaking off the feeling of electricity jumping between where his and Grace's bodies touched.
It’s never more apparent that Grace is a teacher than in moments like these. He’s animated and engaging, pulling participation out of Simon who tries his best not to think about hopelessly studying useless manuals dusted with the fingerprints of dead men.
You are not on the Iron Lung. You are not in the blood ocean. Simon blots out everything except the sound of Grace’s voice gifting him the story of the stars.
Though Simon misses the moment between wakefulness and sleep, it doesn’t miss him. Like it was waiting at the edges of its dark forest for its prey to wander too close. One moment Simon is sitting beside Ryland Grace. A heartbeat. Then he is inundated with a roaring in his ears, hot, oppressive air and both his arms plastered to the Iron Lung’s steel belly. Coagulated, congealing blood boiling his flesh.
With white hot agony and a pitch black rage he wrenches one hand free from the solidifying blood mutating the ship. But his other hand won’t budge, drawn deeper and deeper into the new beast being birthed before his eyes. His anguished howl is horrendous in his ears. Flesh parts from bone, as Simon the Butcher puts himself to the chopping block.
I see you. Butcher. I see what you have given. It is enough.
Simon’s answering scream lacerates his throat. The arm he left behind dangles in the monstrous embrace of the Iron Lung. No longer a part of him. Was Simon ever a part of anything?
Simon.
He whips around at the sound of his name. A form, cloaked in shadows, stands watching him.
Would you give everything just to survive?
Simon lunges towards the human shaped mirage. He doesn’t know what’s real or not. His hand finds purchase against a neck and Simon squeezes, throttling the shadow to the ground.
“I have nothing! NOTHING! To give you!” Simon screams. His vision blurs and distorts. A kaleidoscope of red shifting into incomprehensible patterns around him.
“Si- Simon,” a voice chokes out, followed by a wheezing cough, an aborted gasp for air.
Fingers wrap around Simon’s bicep, shoving fruitlessly. A hand pulls at the palm he currently has compressed against a very soft, very real throat. Simon comes back to himself in a bright flash of light that deals more damage than any radiation camera ever could.
Simon’s fingers loosen automatically, but he can’t move his body. He straddles Grace, pinning him to the floor. His thighs are clamped against Grace’s hips, his weight crushing Grace beneath him. And his hand, his fucking demon of a hand, is splayed across Ryland Grace’s throat. Grace’s pupils are blown wide in fear. His glasses hang off the side of his face.
“Simon? Simon, are you okay?” Grace’s voice is the scratch of a man deprived of air.
Simon can only gape at him in disbelief. Grace surrenders the attempt to remove Simon’s hand from his throat and instead brings his fingers up to rest against Simon’s cheek. Simon jerks back like he’s the one who has just been violently attacked. He shuffles backwards, putting feet of space between him and Grace.
Grace props himself onto his elbows, turning to the side to cough roughly, every ragged breath he takes a dagger in Simon’s heart. Simon wants to grab the hilts and shove the blades deeper. His eyes are magnetized to the ring of red encircling Grace’s neck.
Grace finishes coughing and pushes himself to his knees. “Simon, are you okay?” He asks again.
Is he stupid? Doesn’t he know that when a wolf bites you, you don’t worry for the state of its teeth? How can he be kneeling here looking at Simon with a fright in his eyes that Simon cannot begin to comprehend might be for him, not because of him?
“How can you ask me that?”
Grace starts to stand up, to move closer.
“Don’t come near me!” Simon yells.
Grace freezes, both hands raised in the air like he really is approaching a rabid animal. “It’s okay, Simon. You didn’t mean to. You were sleeping. It was a nightmare.”
That, Simon is no longer sure he believes. Because Simon remembers ripping his own flesh apart. He remembers the confusing muddle of voices. Simon thinks he might remember what it felt like to die.
By this point, Rocky has barreled into the theater. “What happened? Grace okay? Simon hurt Grace, question?!”
Simon can’t bring himself to turn around and meet the Eridians accusing gaze.
Grace looks over Simon’s shoulder to Rocky in the doorway. “Everything’s fine, Rocky. Simon had another panic attack, that’s all. Could you, uh, could you just wait for us outside, please?”
“Rocky dislike. Leave Grace alone is bad bad bad.”
Grace smiles. “I know what you saw and heard probably seemed pretty scary, but I need you to trust me on this, buddy. I’m not afraid of Simon.” His clear blue eyes cut through the scant space between them to Simon. “We just need a minute alone, okay?”
Rocky does the Eridian equivalent of a harumph, but ultimately his faith in Grace is enduring and he retreats out of the room, saying “Rocky listen from over there.”
Grace’s eyes swivel back to Simon. Stars above them and a heavy silence below.
“I hurt you. I’m dangerous.”
“Simon-”
“Don’t!” Simon again demands when Grace takes another step towards him. “I’m not safe! Don’t you get that? Something is wrong with me!”
The entire encounter has only lasted mere minutes, but it’s rewritten everything Simon thought he knew about himself. Filament Station had been an accident. Something he’d tried to prevent. But this? What could he possibly call this to justify it? Butcher or bane, Simon is a toxin in the bloodstream of Hail Mary. And he’s left staring in devastation at the man he’s just poisoned.
Tell him about the Eye, he urges himself. Make him understand what he’s brought onto his ship. Simon hugs his knees to his chest. He can’t help the cornered animal snarl that he watches Grace with.
“You should be afraid. What just happened… I had no control.”
Grace tsks. “Now that’s not true. You stopped yourself.”
“Not before causing you harm.” Simon’s eyes trail down the column of Grace’s throat.
Grace rubs a hand over the damaged skin. “No… but I know you didn’t mean it. I think I shouldn’t have tried to wake you up from your nightmare like that. I shouldn’t have tried to touch you.”
Tell him, tell him now. They’re not just nightmares.
“You seemed to respond when I called your name, though. That’s good. Next time I’ll know what to do.”
“Next time?” Simon spits. “Next time I could kill you.” He lets the words drop like a guillotine to the fragile peace he and Grace have established. Better to behead Ryland Grace’s misplaced trust in him before Simon could do worse.
Grace sighs. “Obviously you trying to strangle me in your sleep is, you know, not ideal. But Simon, I meant what I told you before. Whatever you go through, I’ll go through it with you. We’ll figure this out.”
Tears begin to fall, cascading down Simon’s cheeks in silent penitence. Simon deserves none of what Ryland Grace is offering.
He swallows back tears. “What if I’m just a bad person? What if all I know how to do is hurt?”
Very slowly, Grace walks to where Simon is hunched into himself. With measured patience, he drops to his knees in front of Simon.
“The fact that you’re even asking me that, tells me you're not a bad person. You’re not the things that have happened to you or have been done to you, Simon.”
Simon wants very badly to reach out and wipe away the marks he left on Grace’s skin. To feel Grace’s pulse under his fingers and know that he has not done the irreparable. He doesn’t, of course.
Simon has gone his whole life without feeling the warmth of sunlight. No benediction could rightfully bestow it upon his bloodsoaked hands now.
Pairing: Bloodymary || Simon the Convict x Ryland Grace || 14.4k word total
Summary:
So, dead or alive? Abandoned or absolved? What was he– Simon the Convict, Simon the Butcher– against this backdrop of blackness? Nothing? Everything? Inconsequential? Pivotal? Thoughts eddy through his mind until he is drowning in them.
Until he hears a noise.
A sound that takes shape and defies his muddled understanding of his current existence. Wavelengths that weave the shredded actuality of Simon back into something whole, something that very nearly makes sense.
A voice.
~OR~
En route to Erid, Ryland Grace pulls Simon out of a blood soaked Iron Lung. Simon doesn't know what's real, what to believe, what to trust. Grace is kind and gentle and Simon wants so badly to be safe. But whatever put him in Grace's path to begin with doesn't seem to be done with him yet.
read from the beginning on ao3 HERE
CH 8: Disaster or Destiny?
They are due to arrive in Erid in just three days. After nearly four years of travel, it feels like a miracle to Grace. Not the only miracle, he thinks, as he watches Simon’s steady grip on the flight control. He’s practiced several maneuvers they think will be necessary and done them all with a refinement and calm that left Grace a little breathless. Outside of his sporadically flaring temper and increasingly frequent nightmares, Simon was a bastion of composure. Even when Hail Mary blared an alarm because she didn’t particularly like where Simon was trying to fly, Simon never flinched, never wavered. He just calmly corrected his error.
Grace could never. Strapped into the seat beside Simon, he mumbles a litany of worries under his breath.
“Grace distract Simon, statement,” Rocky reproaches when Grace lets out a probably unnecessary squeal as Simon veers too close to an asteroid floating outside. Hail Mary declares a warning and Grace’s knuckles clench around the seat harness so hard they crack.
“Yeah, sorry about that. Nervous flyer,” he chuckles anxiously.
“It’s okay,” Simon replies evenly. “I’m not distracted.”
Grace is. And not just by the hum of near death experiences in his pulse. His eyes keep wandering to the veins standing out on Simon’s arm. The hard flex of muscle cast in sharp relief. Simon’s been wearing clothing from Yao’s stash. Grace told him to. With supplies so scarce, it didn’t make sense not to put perfectly good clothes to use. Yao’s wardrobe featured several plain black undershirts, which seemed to suit Simon just fine.
Grace’s brain momentarily short-circuited this morning when Simon asked to borrow one of his own shirts until laundry could be done. Grace replays the moment in his head, letting it whisk him away from Hail Mary’s frequent alarms from having an untrained pilot at her helm.
Simon reiterates his question when Grace doesn’t answer the first time. Grace nods mutely, pointing at his stacked shirts beside his bunk. A strange summersault is happening in his stomach at the thought of Simon in his clothes. That’s never happened before. Grace can’t remember a time he’s ever shared clothing with anyone. Simon reaches back to grab the neck of his shirt with one hand and whips it over his head in one fluid motion. Grace stares, dumbfounded.
“Whoa. You’re ripped.” Grace clamps his mouth shut about three syllables too late. The observation had launched itself directly out of his mouth, bypassing his brain entirely. And his traitorous eyes won’t stop roaming the broad expanse of Simon’s chest, the defined section of abs, the swelled pectorals that spoke of much pumped iron. And scars, so many scars. Slashing across his abdomen, butterflying across his skin, mapping the geography of his hardships.
Simon raises an eyebrow, glancing from Grace to himself. “Are you talking about the muscles?” He shrugs, rifling through Grace’s stack of neatly folded t-shirts. “There’s not much to do in Conviction Realization when they’re not using your labor. You work out to pass the time.”
“Oh, right.” Grace’s face feels like it's been set on fire. He scrambles for a change in topic. “You said you were imprisoned for sixteen years?” He winces at his complete buffoonery. Great topic change, Grace.
Simon’s hand pauses over a white t-shirt before pulling it out of the stack. “Yeah. I was twenty years old when I was convicted.” Another pause as he stares solemnly at the t-shirt in his hand. “Does it bother you? That I’m a criminal.”
Simon’s timidly asked question defuses Grace’s embarrassment. “Not at all. You told me what happened, Simon. It wasn’t your fault.”
“Wasn’t it?” Simon’s gaze is imploring on him, like he really wants to know Grace’s answer. “I didn’t know about the bombs my Brothers set to destroy Filament Station. I didn’t know that what they really came for were bodies.” Simon’s chest heaves on a sigh. “But I knew Eden came to steal resources, to take over the station. And I knew what Eden was, what it would mean for the people subjected to them. But I didn’t fight not to go. I didn’t try to stop it then.”
“But you did try to stop it, Simon. When you could. That counts for something.” The compulsion to wrap Simon up in a hug pummels Grace, the impact actually causing him to take a step in Simon’s direction. But Simon’s eyes on him, dark and loaded with self-loathing, freeze him in place.
“Does it really count for anything? I failed. I failed when the Father sentenced my mother to excommunication by death. I failed when I let myself be sent to Filament Station in the first place. And I failed when I couldn’t convince my Brothers not to detonate the bombs. I might fail you, too. It’s what I’m good at.”
“You didn’t fail, Simon. What choice did you even have?” An anger on Simon’s behalf wells up in Grace’s chest. Simon has plenty of anger in him and Grace hates seeing him turn it like a knife to his own throat.
“Isn’t there always a choice?” Simon’s hand scrunches up the fabric of Grace’s shirt.
Grace thinks about the choice he’d been offered. Go die for everyone else, go be a hero. A choice he hadn’t taken. Maybe there was always a choice. But it wasn’t wrong to want to live. Surely what Grace chose is far worse a crime than the choices Simon made. Grace had been asked to save billions and he declined, he’d run away like a coward. Simon had been asked to save no one and yet he’d tried.
“I’m pretty sure cults don’t usually give their followers a lot of real choice. And any perceived choice is a careful manipulation. I know people got hurt, died, because of what you and your Brothers did, but …it does matter that you tried to fight back. It matters that you choose to think differently from them. And you don’t deserve to die for any of it.”
Grace concludes his speech with clenched fists of his own. It’s odd, anger is not an emotion he’s used to indulging, but it feels good. It feels good to be angry at the people who hurt Simon.
Simon stares at him carefully.
“And you’re not going to fail me,” Grace tilts his chin up defiantly. “You can’t fail me. You’re not a science experiment that the conditions can be messed up on. You’re a person. And you’re not alone anymore. Whatever you go through, I’ll go through it with you.”
Grace’s flush is back, creeping down his neck and crowning his ears. Has he said too much? Has he scared Simon with how badly he wants Simon to trust him, to rely on him?
Simon swallows, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. “There is no one like you” –Grace’s heart skips a beat– “Where I came from.”
With that, he pulls Grace’s shirt over his head, tucking his right arm into the sleeve, then pulling the fabric over his left shoulder. Grace watches the words Horse Shoe Bend Auto Club stretch taut over Simon’s chest and can’t make sense of the flutter in his throat.
Grace comes back to the present as Hail Mary blares another warning and Simon course corrects again. Rocky keeps up a continuous string of encouragement for their new pilot. Grace traces the profile of Simon’s face. His long, dark hair falls in shaggy waves over the band of fabric he ties around his forehead to hold the locks back.
Grace can practically count on one hand the number of times someone's physical appearance has aroused any kind of response in him. So he can’t decide if it feels like a disaster or destiny that the one person he meets, eleven lightyears from home, happens to stir something within him that he thinks he might be terrified to name.
When the flight practice session ends, Grace wordlessly unbuckles himself and tries very hard to appear as if he isn’t fleeing the cockpit. He just needs space, needs to not be perceived, needs to slow his breathing and ease the pressure building behind his eyes. He collapses in a far corner of the ship before the ragged sobs break free. Rocky finds him less than two minutes later.
“What happened to Grace, question?”
“It’s okay, Rock. I’ve just …got a lot on my mind.”
“How Rocky help Grace, question?”
Grace scrubs at falling tears. “Nothing you can do, buddy.”
Rocky shuffles anxiously back and forth in his crystal ball. “Nothing Rocky can do. Understood. Rocky have idea.”
Grace watches him leave, having no clue what he means. He presses his forehead to his bent knees, letting the fabric absorb his tears.
“Grace.”
He’s so lost in a swirl of emotions that the footsteps don’t register immediately.
“Grace.”
He can’t bring himself to pick up his head.
“Ryland.”
This time the voice is closer. Grace hasn’t heard his first name spoken aloud in a very long time. It wrenches a sob from his chest. A hand reaches out to pat his shoulder. Grace finally looks up into Simon’s dark, fathomless brown eyes. The other man kneels on the ground in front of him, bracketing Grace’s huddled form in warmth.
“Rocky said you needed my help. Do you want me to stay?” Simon asks.
Grace responds with a wet laugh. So that’s what Rocky meant. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry to be acting like this.”
Simon tilts his head, frowning. “I think in terms of bad behavior, I still have you beat. You don’t need to apologize for being upset. Do you want to talk about what’s wrong?”
Grace gulps around another sob. Where to even begin? With how he’s a sorry excuse for a saviour? And Simon should look anywhere else for his moral compass. Or with how he’s started watching Simon in ways he’s not sure he’s allowed?
“I told you I was forced on the mission to save the sun, right? You were right. We always have a choice, and I chose selfishly. I was too scared to go even when it meant saving the entire world. So if you’re a criminal for what you did, what does that make me?”
Useless, a waste of space. A disappointment, his parents' voices overlap in his head. Too awkward and embarrassing at their fancy dinner parties. Too unwilling to follow in their lofty surgical career footsteps. Too fascinated by molecular biology to be the legacy his parents had coveted when they had a child. Then, too humiliating when Grace’s career took a catastrophic turn. Blacklisted from academia and banned from his parents’ gatherings. It hadn’t taken long before they were barely speaking at all anymore. It had been more than a year without a single text message when Grace received the news of the car crash. He’d always wondered, at the end, did they even remember they had a son?
Gentle fingers on his jaw, tilt his face up to Simon’s.
“You are not a disappointment, Ryland Grace. You are not a waste of space.”
Grace realizes with mortification that he’d said all of that aloud. Simon’s thumb brushes against his cheekbone.
“And you were right, too. Maybe you didn’t make the first choice, but you did make the second. That matters. You still chose to save people. You saved me.”
A fresh wave of overwhelm crashes into Grace. His tears flow hot and rapid. He swipes at them viciously. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m fine.”
“Oh, Grace,” Simon whispers. “You don't always have to be fine, you know?”
Simon’s hand glides from Grace’s jaw to cradle the back of his head. He pulls Grace against his chest. Grace hiccups in shock, but Simon holds him firmly. Grace experiences a moment of utter confusion about what to do next, then he warps his arms around Simon’s waist and buries his face against Simon’s shoulder.
He doesn’t know how long they stay like that, with Grace clinging to Simon and Simon brushing soothing fingers through his hair. He only knows that somehow Rocky knew exactly what Grace needed before Grace knew it himself.
Pairing: Bloodymary || Ryland Grace x Simon the Convict || 12.4k words total
Summary:
So, dead or alive? Abandoned or absolved? What was he– Simon the Convict, Simon the Butcher– against this backdrop of blackness? Nothing? Everything? Inconsequential? Pivotal? Thoughts eddy through his mind until he is drowning in them.
Until he hears a noise.
A sound that takes shape and defies his muddled understanding of his current existence. Wavelengths that weave the shredded actuality of Simon back into something whole, something that very nearly makes sense. A voice.
~OR~
En route to Erid, Ryland Grace pulls Simon out of a blood soaked Iron Lung. Simon doesn't know what's real, what to believe, what to trust. Grace is kind and gentle and Simon wants so badly to be safe. But whatever put him in Grace's path to begin with doesn't seem to be done with him yet.
read on ao3 from the beginning HERE
CH 7: Angel or Abomination?
Simon works diligently to patch up a broken console. As his fingers strip and solder mechanical components together, he tries very hard to keep his mind from wandering to the Iron Lung. He focuses on the grounding feeling of metal digging into his skin where he holds pieces steady between his knees.
Simon has truly given little thought to his missing arm. What was an absent limb in the face of his attempted annihilation? If anything, Simon marveled that more of him wasn't missing. At least on the outside. On the inside, Simon feels like the raw grit of sandpaper grinding harshly against himself. His nerves, rough and sensitive. Too many times he’d snapped at Grace over nothing and Simon hated himself for it. Unprepared for the sound of another human voice speaking in friendly tones to him, Simon would respond with guarded defensiveness.
Barely an hour ago, Grace innocently approached him with a pair of wirecutters asking if these would work better for Simon than the tool he was attempting to make due with. And not even those ocean blue eyes could dispel the fog of fear that settled over Simon. The wirecutters transformed into a bludgeon in the hands of a C.O.I. prison guard. The genuine inquiry warped into an indictment on Simon’s worth. Simon glared and snarled a retort and, in the end, Grace had smiled softly and said he’d just go ahead and leave them right here. The shame still burned through Simon an hour later. So much that even Rocky, working alongside him, noticed.
“Simon upset, question?”
Simon stiffens at the Eridian’s computer generated voice atop its native tinkling melodic language. He still isn’t sure how to interact with Rocky. Though, that probably had little to do with the fact that he was an alien species. Simon barely knew how to interact with humans in any way that didn’t involve a simmering level of volatility.
“Not exactly,” Simon hedges.
Rocky is not deterred. “Simon have reaction to Grace, statement. What is meaning, question?”
Simon sighs. “I got angry earlier. Because I was scared. Because I was …remembering things. I feel bad that I reacted that way to Grace.”
“Oh,” Rocky clicks his stony hands excitedly. “Easy fix. Grace very good human. Simon just say sorry. Grace forgive, statement.”
Simon turns to look at Rocky, torn between exasperation and laughter. He supposes it really was that easy. Simon could say he was sorry for being what he is and Grace would forgive him. Because Grace is a good human. The best Simon has ever known. Did Simon believe he deserved his forgiveness, when he was still keeping so many secrets? When he returned Grace’s worried eyes with wary glances?
“Thanks for the advice.” Rocky continues to stare at him and Simon raises an eyebrow. “What?”
“Simon go talk to Grace now, question?”
“Uh, I don’t know…”
“Grace sad when Simon upset. Grace help Rocky save stars. Grace save humans and Eridians. Grace should not be sad. Simon go now, statement.”
Simon blinks at the Eridian clearly giving him a command. “Sure. I’ll talk to him now.” Simon isn’t entirely sure why he agrees other than the fact that he’d rather not have another alien entity pissed off at him.
Simon finds Grace in the cockpit, apparently in an argument with the ship.
“Come on, Mary. There’s really no landing gear? No landing plan even? In water perhaps? Isn’t that how astronauts usually do it?”
The Hail Mary’s cool voice answers. “Affirmative. There is no program for landing this vessel. The Hail Mary was designed to remain in space following its launch."
“Oh, come on!” Grace bangs his head back into the seat, slouching down in defeat. He rubs a hand under his glasses to scrub at his eyes. The movement pushes his glasses into his hair and when he drops his hand, one side of his glasses is unhooked from his ear. Simon has lost count of the number of times he has watched this exact quirk play out. The glasses cling to Grace’s ear and a strange tightness clings to Simon’s chest.
“Having trouble?” Simon asks.
Grace tilts his head on the seat cushion to look at Simon. “This fudging state of the art ship won’t tell me how to land it.”
Simon studies the dizzying array of control panels. Almost comical compared to the Iron Lung’s lone console. “Are there no escape pods to use?”
“No. Escape was never, uh, on the agenda.” Grace fidgets with the loose, unbuckled seat harness. “If something went wrong with Hail Mary there’d be nowhere to escape to.”
Simon recalls what Grace told him, about being forced on this mission against his will. About being sent to die. Has Simon ever voiced just how similar they are?
“I was sent on a suicide mission, too.”
Grace straightens up in his seat, his focus so wholly, so consumingly on Simon that Simon has to look away in order to keep talking.
“After the Quiet Rapture, many of the survivors banded together. They called themselves the Consolidation of Iron, the C.O.I. They were desperate for any answers, any resources that could save humanity. They took convicts from their Conviction Realization program and sent them to the bottom of a moon, AT-5, they called it.” Simon swallows hard, glancing at Grace to find him watching Simon with rapt attention. “AT-5 is an ocean of blood. The C.O.I. wanted to know what was on the bottom of it. So they welded me into a submarine and sent me down. They promised me my freedom if I did what they told me to do.”
“A lie,” Grace whispers and Simon meets his eyes.
“A lie,” Simon confirms. “I wasn’t the first to be sent down. The oxygen supply on the Iron Lung was finite. And the C.O.I. likes to say they’re not wasteful of human life,” Simon slowly shakes his head. “But who knows how many suffocated to death in that metal tube.”
“That’s horrible, Simon.”
Simon’s smile is taut. “It’s what they did to both of us, isn’t it?” Trapped them inside tombs while their hearts still beat.
Grace stands up, moving a few paces closer to Simon. Simon registers for the first time that Grace is several inches taller than him. That looking up into his eyes might be what it’s like to look into a cloudless blue sky.
“Thank you for the wirecutters.” It’s not exactly the apology Rocky suggested, but Simon hoped it conveyed his intent.
Grace smiles brightly, always so brightly. “You’re welcome.”
Simon clears his throat. “I could try flying.”
Grace’s eyebrows pop up in surprise. “You know how to pilot?”
Simon shrugs. “As a convict, the C.O.I. often had me doing repair work. I’ve piloted smaller crafts before, to get around the outside of ships and stations.”
“Then you already have more experience than me,” Grace grins.
He catches Simon by surprise when he wraps a hand around his wrist and tugs him into the pilot’s seat. He leans over Simon and Simon’s neck prickles, his pulse jumps.
“I can at least give you a crash course on all the controls.”
Simon looks up at him, their faces only inches apart. His eyes flick down to the white t-shirt Grace wears, the words Horse Shoe Bend Auto Club written across it. Simon wonders if that’s some place on Earth that Grace liked to go, if he’d ever like to go there with Simon.
“You’re really going to trust me with this?”
Grace casts his eyes over his shoulder before turning back to Simon, leaning in even closer. “Look, don’t tell Rocky this, even though he can probably hear me right now and also already probably agrees with this, but I’m not entirely confident about my ability to fly this ship. I’ve done it before when I had no choice but it was an out of body experience, you know what I mean? I swear my hands were sweaty for three days afterwards.” Grace shivers at the memory. “If you think you can do it without giving yourself a stomach ache for the next week, then please, I defer to you. I trust you.”
Ryland Grace, saviour of the stars, trusts Simon, the Butcher of Filament Station. Is that right? What has Simon done to earn that trust? An angel or an abomination? Simon knew which one people would choose. Grace’s current choices are woefully limited, but he’s looking at Simon like he’d still choose him out of a crowd of thousands. Or is that Simon’s delusional, wishful thinking?
Simon bites the inside of his lip to hold a smile at bay. “Okay, show me what to do.”
Pairing: Simon the Convict x Ryland Grace || Bloodymary
Summary:
So, dead or alive? Abandoned or absolved? What was he– Simon the Convict, Simon the Butcher– against this backdrop of blackness? Nothing? Everything? Inconsequential? Pivotal? Thoughts eddy through his mind until he is drowning in them.
Until he hears a noise.
A sound that takes shape and defies his muddled understanding of his current existence. Wavelengths that weave the shredded actuality of Simon back into something whole, something that very nearly makes sense.
A voice.
~OR~
En route to Erid, Ryland Grace pulls Simon out of a blood soaked Iron Lung. Simon doesn't know what's real, what to believe, what to trust. Grace is kind and gentle and Simon wants so badly to be safe. But whatever put him in Grace's path to begin with doesn't seem to be done with him yet.
read it all on ao3 HERE
CH 6: Convict or Consequence?
Simon is a tree. Parts of himself recognizable but amalgamated with an unholy ocean of blood. His leaves are razor-edged steaming sanguine. His roots are the color of charred bones. He tries to move but he is cemented in place. His vision narrowed and clouded red. Agony bursts through his cheek as he feels the flesh part and something fanged twist the shape of his jaw grotesquely. He blinks furiously through the murky red dark until the Iron Lung takes form around him, doused with blood and pulsing with a throb that could be a heartbeat.
Simon wants to scream but he can feel the scratch in his throat and thinks with horror that it is twigs pushing themselves up from the bowels of his stomach, shredding his esophagus with their hunger to burst forth from his mouth.
The eldritch voice of something that shouldn’t possibly exist in this world whispers to him again. Convict… Butcher… You were unmade here… and when you gave what was needed… you were remade once more. Do not… fear… this gift…
The branches slide past his wisdom teeth, burrowing into his gums, pressing down Simon’s tongue. He is rendered suffering and silent, as it has always been. He never escaped AT-5. He was still here, being cannibalized by an entity that had already feasted on the rest of the universe. Simon would join the crew from SM-8 along with every other cursed soul now in the belly of the beast.
Simon oscillates between acceptance and terror. Leaves unfurl past his lips and Simon feels himself unraveling. With a final, guttural, choking moan, Simon sends a prayer to the deity that watches. Please, I don’t want to die. Have mercy on me. Show me grace.
Simon comes to gasping for breath, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. Ryland Grace hovers over his cot. His hands outstretched at Simon’s shoulders, barely skimming the cloth of Simon’s borrowed shirt.
“Hey, hey, easy, Simon. I think you were having a nightmare.”
Simon surges up so quickly that Grace doesn’t have time to move out of his way and instead grasps onto Simon’s shoulders to keep himself from toppling backwards. Simon doesn’t mind. He lets himself believe that the feeling of Grace’s fingers pressing into his skin is more real than where he just came from.
“Rocky not understand. Grace watch Simon sleep. But Simon not safe, question?” The Eridian is in his larger crystal structure in the crew quarters where Simon and Grace each take a bunk. When Grace had suggested that Simon move from the medbay into this room with them for sleeping, Simon had spared the briefest thought for the dead man whose bed he now occupied. It seemed fitting to Simon, that the only place for him to rest would be a grave.
Grace squeezes Simon’s shoulder, the one with an arm still at the end of it, his long fingers rubbing reassuringly against Simon’s bicep. “Remember I explained panic to you? It’s like that, Rocky. Simon’s safe.” He says the last two words while staring into Simon’s eyes. “Let me get you some water.”
He does just that. Filling a tin cup and passing it to Simon. “Thank you,” Simon mumbles, throat aching with the memory of invasion.
“Was it the Iron Lung again?” Grace asks.
Simon nods, not feeling up to explaining it further.
Grace bites his lip. “I’m sorry. That must be awful. I used to have this recurring dream that I needed to teach a class but every time I tried to get there, I ended up right back in line at Kroger waiting to buy a bag of bagels. Uh, not that that’s the same thing as your thing or anything. I didn’t mean it like that. Sorry, that was a stupid story to tell.” Grace wears an expression like he’d love to put his head through the nearest wall.
“No, it’s helpful. Could you, just, keep talking for a while?” Simon is unacquainted with asking for what he needs and having it met. The question falls awkwardly from his lips.
But Grace smiles shyly. “Rocky estimates we’re less than two weeks from Erid now. Which is great news because the food stores aren’t gonna last forever, but we’re going to make it just fine. Of course, then we have to figure out what to eat when we get there, but Rocky seems to think there’s vegetation that can sustain us. Getting to a planet, to some solid ground, hopefully that will help with your, um, nightmares. I’m sure being back on another ship after what happened to you must be terrible. But Rocky and I have been drawing up plans for an entire dome we can live in on Erid.”
Rocky interrupts. “Grace must land ship first. Grace bad pilot. Might all die.”
Grace flushes. “Okay, I said I’ve been practicing! It’s gonna be fine.” He turns back to Simon. “It’s gonna be fine,” he repeats.
Simon swallows around a lump in his throat. “You’re really here aren’t you?”
Grace’s gaze softens. Tentatively, he holds out his palm towards Simon. “I’m really here, see?” Slowly, Simon sets his fingertips to Grace’s open palm. His skin is warm and soft. His hand twitches under Simon’s. “And so are you.”
Grace’s eyes are blue like the surface of an ocean reflecting back a cerulean sky. Simon knows what that looks like now. And he knows, no matter how these horrors beat around his skull, this has to be real. Simon doesn’t have the imagination to dream up someone as kind as Ryland Grace.
What was Simon to do, then, when that voice whispering in his head felt pretty damn real, too?
***
Grace doesn't feel scared of Simon's panic attacks. But he does feel worried. Worried that there's not enough he can do to help. Worried that sometimes Simon gets this faraway look in his eye, like he's not really there, like he's being hunted by monsters Grace can't see. It makes Grace feel helpless.
It's been years of travel to Erid with just him and Rocky, which Grace made peace with long ago. Sure, trapped in a tin can in space wasn't exactly the ideal roommate experience, but Grace liked Rocky's company. More than he liked being around most people. Or, at least, around Rocky he felt less awkward, less fearful of making some kind of social faux pas that stops a conversation dead when all Grace had been trying to do was connect.
Grace was prepared to live out the remainder of his life surrounded by aliens vastly different from himself. Then, miraculously, there was Simon. Still vastly different from Grace, but human. Grace felt an unexplainable drive to take responsibility for this new person. As if anything that went wrong would be Grace's fault. Grace didn't need Simon's panic attacks to stop, that's not what he meant. He just needs Simon to know and to believe that Grace isn't going anywhere.
Grace hadn’t been good enough to willingly undertake this mission to save the stars, to save humanity. What did it matter that, in the end, that was exactly what he and Rocky had done? It hadn't been his choice. Grace healed a bit of the hurt from his own cowardice when he went after Rocky to save his friend's life. Sometimes Simon felt like another star flickering on the edge of a waning existence. Grace could save him. He had to. And this time, it would be entirely his choice to do so.
Simon sits alone on his cot in the crew quarters, staring down at his lone hand. Rocky is away at the helm reviewing the course for what's left of their trip to Erid.
“Simon?” The man's head snaps up to look at Grace. “We should change your bandages.”
Grace can feel his insides squirming as he sits down on a stool across from Simon. He's done this countless times already. Armando had patched up the wound of Simon's missing arm better than Grace could've hoped. So all Grace had to do was disinfect it and rewrap it with fresh bandages. But today it feels different to Grace. He can still feel the lingering press of Simon's fingertips against his outstretched palm. Hardly the first time they'd touched each other, but it had been with an intentionality that lit up a dusty region of Grace's brain.
Grace had never been overly fond of human touch to begin with. Often tensing up under the arms of a hug. It wasn't until he realized he’d go the rest of his life without it, had already gone years without it, that it occurred to Grace he might miss it.
“This is healing really well,” Grace tells Simon reassuringly. Simon had yet to offer any explanations for his injuries and Grace didn’t think he should ask. Simon would tell him if he wanted to.
Simon glances over at his shoulder as Grace winds clean gauze around it. “I think I left this part of me back where I came from.”
Grace’s fingers still. “Does that bother you?” Thoughts cycle anxious through his head of having unknowingly left Simon’s arm behind in the craft they rescued him from. The place had been a wreck. Barely any signs of personal belongings. Grace had tried to look, but maybe he’d missed something. Like an entire arm, you idiot. Movement from Simon interrupts his thoughts before he can really work himself into a spiral.
Simon shakes his head slowly, eyes fixed on Grace’s hands. “No, not exactly. I just… have this feeling like I might be a little bit here and a little bit there. Like I might be…nowhere.”
“Whatever you went through left its mark. Not just physically, but here, too.” Grace reaches up to tap a finger against Simon’s temple. “It’s understandable that things feel confusing. I’ll be here to keep reminding you exactly where you are, Simon.”
***
Grace’s hand falls away from Simon’s brow and Simon finds himself wanting to lean forward to chase after the sensation of touch. He doesn’t, of course. Already he feels the recoil of vulnerability having shared with Grace how impermanent he feels. Could Grace read the transience of him in the haunted hollows of his eyes?
Seeking to change the subject, Simon says, “I know how to fix things.” He has to look away from Grace’s interested smile lest the eagerness of it steal his ability to be forthcoming. “I’ve seen some busted monitors around the ship. I could take a look at them. If you want.” Simon’s skin itches under Grace’s increasingly joyful grin.
“That’d be great! So you’re good with mechanical stuff? You should talk to Rocky. He’ll love that. He’s always going off about how dumb I am when it comes to anything non-biology related. Which would be rude if he wasn’t mostly right.”
Grace passes a hand through his hair and continues rambling about Rocky’s opinions on earth scientists. Simon is half paying attention, half scouting the periphery of his own consciousness for anything that shouldn’t belong. The cadence of Grace’s voice serving as an anchoring presence, keeping Simon close to shore so he doesn't get swept away in his own head. Grace usually seems to have no shortage of words, but Simon wonders how mortifying it would be to muster up the willpower to ask if Grace would keep talking to him until he fell asleep. Maybe then abhorrent dreams wouldn’t flood his mind.
But the more Simon accepts that there might be something wrong about him, the more fearful he grows. If that voice is the Eye, and if the Eye can see him, does that mean it can see Ryland Grace?
Simon watches Grace’s animated storytelling. His hands wave exaggeratedly and gentle lines wrinkle his eyes. His glasses have slid to the edge of his nose and locks of his hair stand up at gravity defying angles.
The Eye could have Simon the Butcher. A convict or a consequence? His continued existence was a mere statistical anomaly. But for it to take Ryland Grace? That, Simon cannot allow.
So, dead or alive? Abandoned or absolved? What was he– Simon the Convict, Simon the Butcher– against this backdrop of blackness? Nothing? Everything? Inconsequential? Pivotal? Thoughts eddy through his mind until he is drowning in them.
Until he hears a noise.
A sound that takes shape and defies his muddled understanding of his current existence. Wavelengths that weave the shredded actuality of Simon back into something whole, something that very nearly makes sense.
A voice.
Notes: i may have a teensy little migraine and probably shouldn't have been writing whoops :p worth it though
read on ao3 from the beginning HERE
CH 5: Shipwrecked or Salvaged?
Shortly after their last conversation, Grace asked Simon if he’d like to move into the workspace that Grace and Rocky occupied. Ostensibly so that Simon could have company, but Simon suspected his questions about gods had rattled the biologist more than his bubbly disposition cared to admit. Simon was tempted to refuse. Sixteen years imprisoned by the C.O.I. had left him poor company and all but numb to loneliness.
But Grace didn’t watch him like the C.O.I. prison guards did, with curled lips and condescending sneers. Then again, Eden meant nothing to Grace. Was it possible to fear a doctrine you’d never heard of? Grace didn’t look at him like he was a crazed zealot spouting delusional declarations, seeking the next body to churn into the soil. Grace hadn’t even asked Simon anything more about his strange comments on gods. He only looked at Simon like he actually worried that Simon might feel alone.
So Simon agreed. His legs had wobbled beneath him when he stood for the first time. Grace automatically reached out a hand to steady Simon’s elbow, the warmth so startling against Simon's skin that he recoiled violently enough to surprise them both. Grace jerked his hand back, holding it to his chest. Simon, unaccustomed to regulating his balance with only one arm, fell back down to the bed. They stared at each other wordlessly. Simon’s breaths came quick and shallow, a scream he couldn’t understand climbing up his throat.
“I’m sorry,” Grace said. “I shouldn’t have touched you without your permission. I can help you move if you need.”
How many batons to the backs of his knees had Simon suffered? How many lip-splitting shoves into walls? The C.O.I.’s most favored piece of propaganda about their Conviction Realization program was how humane it was. Simon fixated on the unease in Grace’s eyes, the hand he clutched against his chest, like he truly believed he was the one in the wrong.
Simon swallowed. “It’s okay.” And it hadn’t been a lie.
Now, Simon listens to Grace and Rocky chatter away, their enthusiasm about having a problem to solve palpable. Simon could understand this. If you stayed in motion, it was possible to thwart your fleeting mortality. He pictures his own hands moving over buttons and levers, chasing after coordinates that he foolishly thought might save his life.
“I don’t know, Rock. A whole biodome? That’s a big endeavor.” Grace’s glasses hang lopsided on his face. They seemed to do that a lot.
“Grace dumb. Eridian smart. Can do.”
“I believe you. It’s just… a lot of resources. And we’d need help.”
“Eridians help Grace. Grace friend.”
Simon imagines the Eridian placing his arms on his hips in a very human ‘and that’s final’ gesture. Grace smiles warmly and Simon tunes out the thread of their conversation to study it. It comes so easily to Grace, like that’s the shape his muscles are trained to make. As easy as breathing. As easy as bleeding.
Ryland Grace excitedly snaps his fingers in the air at something Rocky says and that’s when the voice comes to Simon again, primordial and prowling through his head.
Simon. Simon the Butcher. I… See… You…
Simon’s fist connects with the cabinet next to him before he even realizes he’s thrown the punch. The blood seeps from beneath his knuckles and it’s the walls of the Iron Lung, weeping gory tears around him. His flesh fuses to the wall, roots germinating from his finger joints and burrowing into the steel.
And the voice calls his name. Over and over and over until the syllables are an annihilation. “Stop! STOP IT!” Simon wants to clutch his head but his only hand is being propagated into an abomination.
He hears his name again. Different this time. He thinks he’s heard it said this way before but not for a very long time. With the consonants softly cradled, the vowels clasped between loving palms. He knows this voice. A lighthouse on stormy seas, he’s followed it to shore once before. Shipwrecked or salvaged, Simon just has to swim.
“Hey, hey Simon. Can you hear me? I need you to breathe, okay? Come on, nice, deep breaths. Do it with me.”
Simon surfaces. His face is drenched with tears. His fist is still pressed to the ship’s cabinet, his knuckles bloody, but he is not on the Iron Lung. Grace crouches beside him, so close Simon can feel the breath of his exhale when he breathes deep. Simon matches the rhythm of his lungs to the tempo Grace sets. He’s not sure how long they stay like this. Long enough for Simon to settle, dropping his bruised hand onto his lap.
“Are you okay?” Grace asks quietly.
“Simon die?” Rocky interjects.
Grace looks over his shoulder. “No, Rocky. He’s not dying. He just had a panic attack. I’ll explain it to you later.” His attention returns to Simon who still hasn’t answered him. “Can I help you up? We should bandage your hand.”
At Simon’s tentative nod, Grace places a hand under his arm and tugs him up. Simon is unsteady on his feet. He can’t keep himself from leaning against Grace as they walk back to the medbay. Grace doesn’t seem to mind. He pulls Simon’s arm over his shoulder and wraps his own around Simon’s waist. That single point of contact the most support Simon has had in three decades of life.
Grace eases Simon down on the bed then retrieves supplies to tend to his wounds. Simon watches mutely as Grace reaches for Simon’s palm.
“Is it okay if I touch you?”
Simon nods. Grace cleans and bandages Simon’s newest injury in a long line of damaged flesh. Simon feels disinterested in the busted skin that Grace swipes some sort of stinging disinfectant over. He was mangled in ways no medicine could ever fix.
“Do you want to talk about what just happened?”
Simon bites the inside of his cheek. “I just… I got confused. Thought I was on the Iron Lung again.”
“That was the name of your ship? Iron Lung?”
“One of them, yeah.”
Grace secures the gauze. His hand is still on Simon’s when he looks up and says, “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but if you wanted to talk about what happened to you, I’m here.”
“I,” Simon clears his throat. “I don’t know how to talk about it.”
The corners of Grace’s eyes crinkle. “The hard things are like that, aren’t they?”
Simon doesn’t know what to say to this. The only things Simon has ever known have all been like that.
“Do you want to see something cool?” Grace laughs at Simon’s skeptical silence. “I promise it’s nothing biology related. Come on.”
Curiosity gets the better of him and Simon follows Grace. He leads him into a room with a walkway looking out over a number of large screens, all lit up with soft white light. Grace plops down onto the steel grating, hunching over his laptop. Simon stands stiffly in the doorway.
“This is how I introduced Rocky to a bunch of human stuff. Including Rocky, which he didn’t seem to appreciate as a classic quite as much as I’d hoped. We gave Rocky’s mate the human name Adrian, by the way. Anyway I guess Stratt wanted the people to have a little bit of home to bring with them on the mission because there’s a massive digital library of media from all over Earth.” Grace finally pauses for a breath and looks up at Simon. “I thought it might be nice to see a little bit of home.”
“I’ve never been to Earth,” Simon clarifies.
Grace flushes red. “Oh, um, I know you said it was gone now, but I didn’t realize it had been gone for so long. I’m sorry. This was really insensitive of me. See, this is why I’m a lousy party guest.” Grace chuckles nervously, rubbing his hand against his neck.
Simon takes pity on him. Simon has said so little about where he came from. How can he fault Grace for filling in the gaps? And Simon literally couldn’t remember the last time anyone had done something just to make him feel better. Grace was trying. Simon felt a twinge of anxiety at the thought of Grace ceasing those efforts. Had he already grown so accustomed to the presence of a fellow human being who didn’t want him dead?
“It’s fine. Show me.”
Grace smiles and taps a button on his computer. All around them, the screens fill with dazzling imagery. Simon can’t make sense of what he’s seeing at first. Not until he realizes that the screens are creating one, larger picture. He zooms out and feels his knees go weak. His hand grabs onto the wall to keep himself upright.
Majestic, stunning blue waves crash over him. Their waters crystal clear and cool. Simon could almost swear a salt-crusted breeze stirs his hair. Not that he’s ever felt one before. But he’s read about it in the surviving books, seen images of it saved to Eden’s database, heard the stories passed down from elders. Never has he seen such a breathtaking video. The sheer scale of the screens adding a sense of grandiosity Simon can barely comprehend.
He was fifteen years old when the stars and the planets winked out of existence. He’d never known his father and he had a shaky understanding of what exactly his mother did on Eden Station. She’d often talk to him, though, of returning to Earth one day, of wanting him to see more than the pinpricks of starlight and a dusty planet out the station’s windows. They’d never gotten that chance. Often, Simon wished that they had. Not so he could marvel at Earth’s wonders, but so that they had both simply disappeared in the space between breaths. After the Quiet Rapture, his mother would never leave Eden again.
Simon’s hand slides down the wall and suddenly he’s kneeling, beholding the rippling waves, the sandy beach, the lush line of thick verdant trees enveloping him. He thinks of the Father’s prophecy. There will be a thousand trees once the Last Son of Eden joins. Is this what they’d been willing to sacrifice their own flesh for, to murder for? Is this what Ava had been willing to entomb him in an ocean of blood for? Was Simon’s life really worth more than this?
At some point, Grace materializes out of the vision around him, kneeling like Simon. Only he ignores the incredible scene behind him, his gaze fixed wholly on Simon. His mouthing is moving. Simon frowns, focusing to hear.
“Hey, hey, you’re okay. You’re right here. On the Hail Mary. Good grief, Grace. Great job. Try to cheer a guy up and you make him cry instead. Simon, I’m so sorry. I thought it would be nice. I should shut it off. Wow, why didn’t I think of that first. Get it together, Grace!” Grace rakes an agitated hand though his hair and makes to stand, but Simon catches his wrist.
He forces his tear-filled eyes away from the computer screens to look at Grace. “Leave it. It’s beautiful.” And because he can barely think through the pounding in his skull and also because it’s true, Simon adds, “It’s the color of your eyes.”
***
Grace’s eyes go wide at that. It’s not like he’s never received compliments about his eyes. They usually just came before he’d opened his mouth and ruined it by saying something dumb or with more words than the other person had signed up to listen to.
Simon’s gaze travels back to the video of the ocean Grace had queued up. He’d genuinely thought this was a good idea after Simon’s panic attack earlier. Moving water was supposed to be calming right? Of course that premise was predicated on the idea that a person had actually seen moving water before. It was abundantly clear now that Simon had not. Any lingering traces of doubt that Simon might be wrong or confused about his origins was expunged from Grace’s mind. Simon still gripped his wrist tightly as his eyes roved hungrily over the screens.
“Do you want to move closer?” Grace asks.
Simon jerks his head back to him like he forgot he was there. Then he drops Grace’s wrist like it burns him. But he nods yes. So they move to the center of the walkway where Rocky and Grace often watch movies from. They sit in silence, shoulder to shoulder for a long time. It’s strange, the somersaults of elation turning over in Grace’s chest. Even with Rocky saving his life, Grace had mourned that he’d never talk to another human again. Yet, here is one now. With more secrets than Grace can imagine keeping himself and a wide chasm of different lived experiences. But Grace isn’t going to be the only human on this side of the galaxy.
When Grace can no longer restrain himself he says, “People assume that biologists must love the ocean. And the ocean is neat. But I've always preferred forests. All that green and growth. All that life. I guess that's true for the ocean too. But trees have always appealed to me more. Not that I’m really the outdoorsy type.” Grace laughs at himself, thinking of the last time he’d tried to go hiking and nearly ended up embarrassingly lost in a state park. “Do you– did you have a favorite part of Eden?”
Five seconds pass before Simon glances at him from the corner of his eye. “My mother,” is all he says.
“What is she like?”
“She was kind.” Simon exhales shakily. “But not soft. She didn’t agree with Eden’s teachings after the Quiet Rapture. Always taught me to question it, too. She was never loud about it, though. I don’t even know how the Father found out about what she thought. But he did. And they killed her for it.” Simon’s eyes skate over Grace, then away again. “There’s nothing left on Eden that I care about.”
Much of what Simon shares doesn’t make sense to Grace. A world of lore he’s not privy to. But Grace understands loss. “I’m sorry that happened to your mother.”
Simon fiddles with a loose thread on his pants. “You’re not going to ask me anything else?”
“Do you want me to?”
Simon breaks the thread off, rolling it around his thumb and forefinger. “My mom died when I was around twenty. Our leader, called himself the Father, saw me as an extension of her. A threat to the Brotherhood. So I was conscripted into a mission to take bodies from another station. The Brotherhood believed we must nourish the Last Tree by any means necessary. That all of humanity’s survival depended on the Last Tree surviving. I tried to stop them on Filament Station, but a lot of people died. And they deemed me the butcher responsible for it.”
Grace has never known Simon to talk for this long. The bitter hatred in his voice is unmistakable.
“I spent sixteen years under the Consolidation of Iron’s Conviction Realization program. I gave them my labor. My obedience. And, when they decided it was necessary, I gave them my life.”
Grace folds his leg under him so he can turn to face Simon. “But you’re not dead,” he asserts.
Simon’s head tips back, like he might be able to feel the rays of sun bouncing off the ocean and onto his face. “I hope I’m not. I hope this is real.”
“Simon. I promise you this is real. I’m real. You’re real. Rocky is definitely real or else we are having one hell of a shared hallucination. I pulled you out of a disturbingly blood-soaked ship myself and that was real.”
Simon cocks his head towards Grace. “The ship was bloody?”
“Yeah, the insides of it. And you. Alarmingly so actually.” For some bizarre reason this makes Simon crack the faintest smile but Grace will take it. “You know what I think will help convince you that you can’t possibly be making this all up. You know, if the alien and giant space ship won’t do it.” Grace picks up his laptop and scrolls to the humongous music library. “Okay I won’t make you watch all the way to Rocky III, but this song is an iconic pop culture moment. I dare you to say you dreamt this up yourself.” Grace hits play and the opening beats of Eye of the Tiger replace the sound of the ocean’s waves.
Grace attempts to give the lip-sync performance of his life. Tom Holland, eat your heart out. In any other company, Grace would’ve been horrified to behave so theatrically. The thought of being the center of attention would’ve petrified him. But it wasn’t hard with Simon. And it was worth it when his smile deepened, never quite breaking over his teeth, but his head bobbed to the drums and his eyes followed Grace’s exaggerated air guitar.
At some point, Rocky rolls into the room, exclaiming “Grace have illness, question?!” And Grace has to pause to explain the concept of lip-syncing. The Eridian takes to this latest human development quite well, shuffling around his crystal ball in an imitation of Grace’s movements. Grace happily dances with his friend, hope waltzing through every corner of his heart.
Every time his gaze darts over to check on Simon, he finds the other man’s eyes already on him. It doesn’t matter to Grace how long it takes– he has forever to convince Simon that this is real, that this could be the rest of their lives together. That though they were both meant to die, they’re going to live.
I promise my other fics are not abandoned I've just been hit by a train called bloodymary. I saw it coming and tied myself to the tracks. the damage is extensive. the doctors say I'll make a full recovery but only if I take my medicine* (*keep writing bloodymary fics)
So, dead or alive? Abandoned or absolved? What was he– Simon the Convict, Simon the Butcher– against this backdrop of blackness? Nothing? Everything? Inconsequential? Pivotal? Thoughts eddy through his mind until he is drowning in them.
Until he hears a noise.
A sound that takes shape and defies his muddled understanding of his current existence. Wavelengths that weave the shredded actuality of Simon back into something whole, something that very nearly makes sense.
A voice.
read on ao3 from the beginning HERE
CH 4: Perdition or Paradise?
“And then he said, ‘I’m from Eden,’” Grace dips his voice low to mimic Simon’s. “Eden! A space station orbiting Mars! So I was like, that doesn’t exist. And he was like ‘not anymore’ and can you believe it, Rocky?! I think he time-travelled here. From, like, a really bad future.”
“Grace Simon from different times, question?”
Grace paces back towards Rocky, tossing his hands into the air. “Yes! That’s what I’m saying. Our versions of the world don’t match up. Isn’t that incredible? Again, aside from the ‘his stars and planets are all gone’ part.” Grace winces, wondering if he’s being too overeager about this. Grace couldn’t return home either, but at least Earth still existed a dozen light-years away. Simon didn’t even have that comfort.
The scientist in him considers that maybe he jumped a little too quickly to time travel, but then the other scientist in him argues that rock-like alien lifeforms and sun-eating organisms exist, so why not time travel? Space was weird. Besides, one moment Simon’s ship hadn’t been in their path and the next moment it had, sending Grace and Rocky rushing to slam on the brakes to avoid a collision. It made no logical sense. Simon shouldn’t have been there, but he was. And he spoke of a world immensely different from Grace’s own.
“When Rocky meet Simon, question?”
Grace could see the way Rocky practically vibrated with his anticipation. He knew it hadn’t been easy for the Eridian to suppress his curiosity and give Simon the space that Grace had asked for. “How about right now?”
“Excite excite excite!” Rocky launches himself into his crystal ball and takes off.
Grace scrambles after him. “Okay, but remember what we talked about! He was really injured, take it slow with him!” Grace had the distinct impression Rocky was ignoring him as he barrelled towards the medbay.
When they first crossed paths with Simon’s ship, floating derelict through space, Grace assumed he was about to meet yet another new alien species. But Rocky had been quick to inform him that he didn’t know of any others. Rocky constructed one of his airtight bridges and sealed it to the other ship. Grace was horrified to discover that the entire access door had been welded shut from the outside. What kind of person trapped someone inside a vessel like this? Grace’s thoughts flickered to Stratt. That’s what she’d done to him. Turns out, Grace did know the kind of person who would do something like that.
He and Rocky had worked for hours to safely unseal the hatch. They had many debates about whether this ship had been sealed because something needed to stay in, about whether they risked unsealing it and immediately being attacked by a hostile lifeform. They also debated whether opening the hatch would expose whoever was inside to deadly atmosphere.
But every attempt to contact the ship had been met with dead silence. And Grace saw the barely legible letters rusted over on the door. SM-13. Those were human. The whole craft felt foreign, yes, but also achingly familiar. Like Grace could almost see the phantom hands of the people who had crafted it. In that moment, he believed unshakably that there was a human being inside– and they needed help.
Grace had been right. Although it took them a moment to make sense out of the congealing viscera sloshing on the narrow ship’s floor, coating its walls. Grace almost didn’t notice the slumped figure propped against the wall at the very back of the craft. Grace wore his environmental suit but he swore he could almost smell the metallic tang that hit the back of his throat. He was pretty sure that was blood dripping in thick rivulets down the wall. What the hell had happened here?
He looked back at the unconscious figure, definitely human, hair plastered with dried blood. Surely this carnage around them couldn’t be the result of one injured person. Grace carried Simon back to the Hail Mary himself– no easy feat in a lumbering space suit. He’d held his breath until the medical system took over and informed him that life signs were detected. Grace dropped his head into his hands and explained to Rocky that no, he didn’t cry because he was sad but because he was happy.
Rocky crashes into medbay. Well, maybe not crashes, but Grace fears that’s how it will look to an unprepared Simon.
Grace squeezes between Rocky and Simon who observes the Eridian with wide eyes. “In my head this was a lot more thought out, but, uh, this is Rocky. I told you about him. We’re on our way to his planet now to save his sun. He’s going to help us hopefully survive when we get there. Our atmospheres are very different. That’s why he’s inside that crystal structure it–” Grace cuts himself off, aware that he’s prattling on because he’s nervous about Simon’s reaction to Rocky. What was he supposed to do if his only friend and the only other human he’ll likely know for the rest of his life didn’t like each other?
Simon watches Rocky, his head tilted to the side. “Do you plan to eat me?”
Grace gasps through the fingers covering his mouth, but Rocky doesn’t seem insulted by the question– or at least not insulted for the reasons Grace would think.
“Thanks, buddy,” Grace laughs, relieved when Simon nods like he accepts that Rocky isn’t lethal to them.
“The last…creature I met wanted to eat me. Figured it didn’t hurt to check.”
This stops Grace short. “You’ve met another alien?”
Simon’s eyes flick away from Rocky back up to him. “Something like that. It’s a long story.”
“I think we’ve got the time,” Grace urges gently, desperate to learn anything, anything about this man, about the convergence of random points of data that allowed them to encounter one another in this vast galaxy.
“It’s not a matter of time. It’s a matter of will,” Simon turns fully away from them and Grace understands this as a closing on the conversation.
“Okay, Rocky. Let’s let him rest some more.” Grace looks back once as they exit but Simon’s gaze never leaves the wall.
***
Grace returns sometime later, this time without his alien friend, to bring Simon food. Simon has barely been able to stomach the thought of eating since he woke up. But Grace has been persistent in his mission to see Simon fed and hydrated. It’s just that everything tastes like blood in his mouth. Every sip of water laced with a coppery bite, like Simon was perpetually nipping his own tongue. But whenever Simon brought his hand up to check, no crimson stained his fingertips. Maybe when you drowned, a little bit of your drowning always stayed with you.
Grace slides the tray table over to Simon, then turns to leave, noticeably less talkative than usual. Had Simon upset him earlier with his refusal to speak?
“What are you?” Simon asks quietly.
Grace pauses, rotating slowly in the doorway until he’s looking at Simon. “I’m a middle school teacher from Ohio. I wasn’t supposed to be the guy on this mission. There was an accident. They needed a replacement biologist and they very literally weren’t taking no for an answer.” Grace sighs, passing a hand under his glasses to rub his eyes. “I didn’t choose to come here. They drugged me, put me into a medically induced coma and I woke up already onboard. There was some kind of malfunction. My crewmates died before we ever arrived at our destination. I was alone before Rocky.”
Simon takes this in. He still doesn’t know if he can trust Ryland Grace, but he does believe him. Because Simon knows what people are capable of in the name of a greater good. Simon remembers hearing a story once about dogs who could sniff out cancer in people. He thought people had something of this ability too. Simon could see the way terminality cloaked Grace’s shoulders. He might wear it with a verve that eluded Simon, but he wore it all the same.
“Can we really survive when we reach Erid?” Simon asks.
Grace looks over his shoulder like he’s checking for eavesdroppers. “I don’t know,” he answers in a hushed voice. “Rocky and I are working on plans right now. A way to build a habitat of sorts. This ship wasn’t built for a return flight or long term habitation.” Grace shrugs, almost apologetically. “We’re going to try. We’re going to try to make it work on Erid.”
“Do you think there's a god?” Simon poses the question calmly.
Grace twitches, clearly surprised by the change in direction of the conversation, his glasses sliding down his nose. “Well, many religions believe in the existence of god. But, um, I–”
Simon interrupts him. “Not like that. Those gods are stories. I mean a real one. One that can see through the fabric of reality. One that watches.”
“Do you believe in that kind of god, Simon?” Grace is obviously unnerved by Simon’s intensity.
Simon doesn’t answer him. Doesn’t know how to explain the murmuring whisper right at the edges of his comprehension. Doesn’t know how to explain that he believes Grace, but he’s not sure if Grace should believe himself. Doesn’t know how to explain that the nature of Ryland Grace in Simon the Butcher’s life is balanced on the flat edge of a knife. And whether the blade will turn and slice him or fall harmlessly away all depends on that whisper. That whisper is a ferryman, lantern held aloft, preparing to shepherd Simon to one of two fates– perdition or paradise.
He can’t tell what the voice says, but he can feel it brush against his consciousness. He thinks the voice might be in his head. He thinks the voice might be responsible for the taste of blood on his tongue.
So, dead or alive? Abandoned or absolved? What was he– Simon the Convict, Simon the Butcher– against this backdrop of blackness? Nothing? Everything? Inconsequential? Pivotal? Thoughts eddy through his mind until he is drowning in them.
Until he hears a noise.
A sound that takes shape and defies his muddled understanding of his current existence. Wavelengths that weave the shredded actuality of Simon back into something whole, something that very nearly makes sense.
A voice.
read on ao3 from the beginning HERE
CH 3: Subjugated or Spared?
Simon was in a hell, for once, entirely of his own making. When he'd maintain his solemn vow of silence, Grace had swept in like the patron saint of small talk. He'd rattled off endless stories about his students. How Teddy achieved this with one of his experiments, how Rosa said that funny thing and the whole class made callbacks to it for an entire semester. Grace had an endless supply of personal anecdotes to while away the hours of Simon's recovery.
A recovery Simon felt dubious about, at best. He didn't care what the fancy computer system said. What technology could possibly fix an evisceration of the soul? Sure, Simon's vitals were stable and his organs were snug in his body. But he could feel the wrongness of it crawling through his veins. AT-5 had been a death sentence. So why was he here? Where was here?
Grace spoke sometimes of things Simon didn't understand. Once when we took the kids outside for a field trip, he'd say, oblivious to Simon's fixation on the word outside. What did that even mean? Outside was only empty space. Outside was a starless void and missing planets. No one went outside.
It's not that Simon minds the lulling cadence of Grace’s voice. He has a pleasant drawl and an easy smile. The kind you can hear in someone's voice when they speak. The kind that makes you want to smile back, though Simon doesn't. This is hell, not because Grace's chatter is unwanted, but because Simon is uncertain how long he can allow it. He doesn't want to put an end to it, but he can't trust that this frenetic mirage of a man won't disappear, won’t ripple out of Simon’s existence like he was nothing more than a trick of light. Simon doesn't want to interrupt the heavenly banality of Grace's storytelling to ask questions that will crumble this mundane peace into choking dust.
But he finds that he must when two days after he first awoke, Grace says to him, “Ashley could name every single ocean on Earth, it was incredible! She vowed that she was going to visit all of them one day.”
Grace continues talking, but Simon isn’t listening. Fine, teach the kids about their home world. Many of those surviving still remembered the azure blue waves and perpetually stretching horizons. Not Simon, who had only ever known Eden. Even his ventures down to Mars were few in number. But to let a child believe they could one day see those waters for themself? Simon thought it cruel.
“Where are you from?” Simon interrupts Grace.
“Uh, Cleveland?” Grace offers nervously. “Ohio,” he attempts to clarify when Simon stares at him blankly.
“There is no Cleveland,” Simon says flatly. “I asked, where are you from?”
Grace blinks at him from behind his shiny spectacles. Maybe it was possible for the man to have protected those fragile pieces of metal for the handful of decades since the Quiet Rapture. Simon didn’t know. There was only one thing he’d ever wanted to protect and he’d failed at that miserably. He didn’t know what it took to preserve something. His hands knew only callousness and calamity.
“I’m from Eden.” Simon can’t help the gruff anger in his voice.
“Eden? I’m not familiar with that. Is it in North America? Europe? Asia?”
Simon stares. Incredulity lodging in his throat like a swallowed air bubble, cramping his stomach, distending it around the shape of something anomalous. Something incompatible with everything Simon knows.
“Eden,” he repeats. “The Mars station.”
Grace shakes his head slowly, but Simon can’t tell which one of them the gesture is directed at. “I’m not aware of any people on Mars.”
“There isn’t a colony on Mars. Not anymore. There hasn’t been for over twenty years. Only the orbiting space station, Eden, survived. Along with a handful of other stations and ships.”
“I’m sorry, uh” –Grace scrutinizes him, moving the laptop off his lap onto the floor beside him– “Are you not from Earth?”
A dry, mirthless laugh escapes Simon. “You talk about it like it’s still there.”
Grace gets to his feet, pacing. Like he needs to be in motion for the gears of his mind to turn over what Simon is saying. “Earth? It is still there. I just came from there. Well, not just, but before I started this mission.”
“That’s impossible.” Whether this was his heaven or hell, Simon was clear on this fact. “Earth disappeared. Just like every other planet and star.”
With that, Simon finally sees what Grace looks like when his cheerful equilibrium is rocked. He rakes a hand through his hair further mussing the golden locks that seem content to go where Grace commands. “Survived what?” He turns abruptly back to Simon.
“The Quiet Rapture.” Simon lets the words drop sober and heavy into the room. He’s several shades beyond suspicious of any living soul that claimed not to know of this disaster. You couldn’t still be alive and not know. What would be the point in lying to Simon about this?
Grace mouths the words silently to himself. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be, um, antagonistic here, but I have no idea what you’re talking about. Earth is fine. The planets are fine. I mean, yeah sure, the sun is being snacked on by some astrophage but that’s why I’m out here. To find the solution so the sun doesn’t die. And I did! Well, Rocky and I did it together. And I sent the data back to Earth and now we’re on our way to Erid to save Rocky’s planet, too.”
They stare at each other for a handful of tense seconds after Grace concludes his speech. Chock-full of more useful information that Simon has gathered from the man in the last two days combined. But his attention snags on one frivolous detail. “Who’s Rocky?” He has yet to meet another person since waking up. He’d assumed it was just him and Grace alone.
“Rocky. He’s my best friend. He’s an Eridian. He saved my life, I saved his. He helped me save your life, too. I told him to give you some space while you recovered. I wasn’t sure if meeting an alien would be too shocking to deal with right now. I was going to introduce you when you were feeling better.”
This time when Simon laughs, it’s still dry, still gruff, but a small drop of actual humor bleeds through. This strange man sought to protect Simon from the revelation that aliens existed. It was so absurd, so ridiculous to Simon– who had met the maws of a monster with his own volcanic rage. Yet, here was Grace, hoping to shield Simon from an inevitability that the others had simply forsaken him to.
Grace’s gentle voice pulls Simon from his thoughts. “You come from a place where the sun already died?”
They meet each other’s eyes. “Where everything died. Where everything is gone.” Simon waits for Grace to challenge him, to claim his reality is more truthful than Simon’s.
Grace steps to his bed side. “I’m so sorry. That’s awful.”
Something in Simon dislodges, is set adrift around his insides, pinging against the hollow walls of his heart. No one ever believed him. The Father hadn’t believed him when he swore his mother’s blasphemous words weren’t dangerous. The C.O.I. hadn’t believed him when he swore he tried to stop the sabotage of Filament Station. Simon looks sharply away before Grace can see the moisture gathering in his eyes.
“This is going to sound a little insane,” Grace muses. “But I think we may be from different times.”
Simon takes three deep breaths to steady his heart rate before he looks back at Grace. “Something is killing your sun?” Grace nods. “You think I’ve traveled back in time to before whatever that thing is finished the job?”
Grace shrugs sheepishly. “I told you it was insane. But if what I’m saying is true and what you’re saying is true. Whenever you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. That’s a Sherlock quote. From Arthur Conan –never mind, doesn’t matter.”
“You’re really not with the C.O.I.?” Simon asks the question he had postponed, the one that could ruin it all. Is he to be subjugated or spared?
Grace smiles wide, holding his arms up at his sides. “I have no idea what that is.”
And so Simon does something that does not come easily to him, not anymore.
So, dead or alive? Abandoned or absolved? What was he– Simon the Convict, Simon the Butcher– against this backdrop of blackness? Nothing? Everything? Inconsequential? Pivotal? Thoughts eddy through his mind until he is drowning in them.
Until he hears a noise.
A sound that takes shape and defies his muddled understanding of his current existence. Wavelengths that weave the shredded actuality of Simon back into something whole, something that very nearly makes sense.
A voice.
Notes: okay well we're at least getting their first meeting lol i love simon so much sob sob sob
read on ao3 from the beginning HERE
CH 2: Illusory or Not?
The computer’s announcement jars Grace from his laptop screen. He blinks dazedly up to where Rocky taps away on his own devices.
Idle hands are the devil’s workshop, Grace remembers thinking to himself on more than one occasion aboard the Hail Mary. An idiom someone had explained to Grace once upon a time. He kept himself busy so he didn’t succumb to boredom. He’s not exactly sure what mischief he could get up to confined to a spaceship, but he’d rather not find out. He’d already found out the direction his wayward thoughts would trend when left unsupervised and wished he hadn’t. Thus, he stayed preoccupied. And nothing could’ve been a more astounding preoccupation than the dying man he and Rocky had pulled out of space.
“Eye movement detected,” Hail Mary’s medical system repeats.
“Grace patient wake up, question?” Rocky looks at Grace expectantly– at least Grace assumes he does– and it’s this that finally spurs him to his feet, dropping his laptop onto the cushion he was sitting on.
During the quieter parts of their meandering journey to Erid, Grace cycled through the standard interrogatives a man sent to space to die for everyone else might have. Is this really the end? What did I do to deserve this? Of all the brilliant and more highly qualified scientists, why me? At first, Grace had leaned into the bitter resentment of being punished for living a life unattached. Of course, Grace wasn’t unattached, not really. He cared deeply for his students. But it was easy to blame his perceived isolation as the reason he had been chosen for this mission. Send the guy with no family, no one to miss. You don’t even have a dog, Stratt’s voice would whisper to him, not unkind. Like it was meant to be a comfort to him and not the ones nailing him into a coffin.
His ire evaporated when he thought of his fallen comrades who had never even survived transit to see the start of their shared mission. He hadn’t remembered them at first, but slowly, as the amnestic fog wore off, they came to him in brief, bright flashes. Yao proudly showing off a picture of his daughter. Ilyukhina boasting of her mother’s famous pelmeni. No one was urging them not to go because of these ties. So maybe Grace wasn’t solely picked because Stratt thought his life added up to pretty much nothing– but he bet it had sure made things abundantly easier for her to drug him and send him to his death knowing no mourners would show up demanding her accountability.
His anger sluiced off of him entirely when he met Rocky. A downpour that delivered Grace to gratitude’s doorstep. Maybe Grace hadn’t chosen this for himself, but he’d gotten one hell of a best friend out of it. He planned to cherish that with whatever life he had remaining.
Grace rounds the corner into the medbay expecting to find his patient flailing about. Disoriented much like Grace had been the first time he woke up with the medical system prodding at him. Instead he finds an unmoving man, tucked under a blanket where Grace had left him. He approaches slowly. Until he’s close enough to see the rapid movement pressing behind the man’s closed eyes. A furrowed brow creases his otherwise placid features. His right hand– his only hand– curls into the blanket. Grace studies him for a moment and is struck by the phrase invisible battles. This man seemed to strain and struggle against something Grace couldn’t see.
“Hey, you’re okay. I think you’re having trouble waking up, but if you can hear me, you’re safe. Take your time. I’ve got you,” Grace says in what he hopes is a soothing voice. It tears at his heart, watching those rolling eyes and that rigid fist. No one had been there when he woke up. No one to explain what the hell was happening, why he was all alone. He felt a pinprick of pride that he could do for this stranger what no one had done for him.
At his words, the man’s hand flutters against the bed, fingertips lifting towards the ceiling in a brief gesture of seeking before relinquishing themselves to taut tendons once more.
“Patient alive question?” Rocky asks from behind him where he’d climbed into his crystal ball to follow Grace.
Grace smiles, his eyes tracing the lines butterflying across the man’s forehead. “Yeah, Rock. He’s alive. And he’s fighting for it.”
***
It takes another two hours for Simon to open his eyes. And that’s exactly what he does– simply opens them. Plunges them into harsh white light and refuses to blink when they water. Afraid to disrupt this strange hallucination around him. He knows for certain he’s not back on Eden. Nothing on Eden looks this pristine. This perfectly polished metallic of the ceiling above him surely spoke of wealth and resources only the C.O.I. could hope to have access to. And even then.
He flexes his fingers, looking down with a specific lack of concern because he’d already known. Simon remembers his left arm ripping from its socket at his shoulder. Now that he’s fully awake, he realizes there is not an absence of pain as he’d first thought, but it’s a muted throb. How did the C.O.I. have these kinds of drugs? The kinds that could take death and dull it to an afterthought. Deciding he’s done staring at the ceiling, Simon slowly twists his head to the left. This triggers some kind of system announcement.
“Movement detected.”
Simon turns his head to the right in time to catch a slumped over figure knock off his own glasses as he jerks to attention. The man mumbles under his breath, swiping a hand across the floor next to him to retrieve his glasses. He jams them back into place on his face, then he finally looks at Simon. The man freezes, mouth gaping open in an expression that Simon could mistake for relief.
“You’re awake!” The man surges to his knees.
Less than two meters separate Simon from where the man slept against the wall of the room. It feels like light years, it feels like an ocean of blood. Simon must flinch though he has no memory of doing so because the man stays where he is, his arms raised placatingly at his sides, hovering on his knees in macabre penitence. The C.O.I. felt little in the way of contrition for what they had condemned Simon to. To act otherwise now, to feign this gentleness towards him meant only one thing. Either they wanted something more from him or these were the last firing synapses of a dying man, conjuring something beautiful to see him off.
Because it was beautiful. Simon let himself drink in the sight of another living, breathing person before he shattered the illusion. The man had a crown of unruly golden hair and behind his glasses lay a pair of brilliant blue eyes almost shocking in their tenderness. No one had looked at Simon that compassionately since his mother took her last breath.
Simon falters, unsure if his own mind is capable of blessing him with generosity such as this. But if an actor of the C.O.I. …this man was a good one. To what end? Simon had nothing left to give. He’d already paid with his life. He had no higher currency.
“What do you want?” Simon’s voice is raspy and he wonders how long it’s been since he spoke a sentence that wasn’t encased in a bloody scream.
The man, still on his knees, blinks at him several times. Opens and closes his mouth around words he can’t seem to figure out. “I want to get you some water?” He finally says with a smile, but Simon can hear the question mark. The punctuation denoting the man’s search for the correct answer. Simon doesn’t want correct answers. He wants the truth.
“What are you?” His throat grates out the words and sprinkles them over the room.
The man touches a hand to his chest. “I’m Grace. Ryland Grace. That’s my name. And, uh, I’m going to stand up very slowly because this metal flooring was absolutely not designed for prolonged, uh, kneecap contact.”
Simon listens to the man, Grace, ramble. He still hasn’t tried to sit up in bed, hasn’t bothered checking to see if any other pieces of himself are missing. Or if there are perhaps extra pieces. Branches sprouting out of sockets. He just lays there, his head tipped to the side as he watches Grace rise to his feet, slowly as promised. Grace takes one step towards him, then another when Simon holds himself perfectly still.
“I’m going to incline the bed so you can sit up to drink, okay?”
Simon doesn’t respond, just keeps pouring over the details of Grace. The stubble at his jaw. The text sprawled across his chest reading I had potential. No one on Eden had clothes like this. Nor had he ever seen the C.O.I. dressed in anything short of utilitarian. Scarcity of resources meant form and function were king. Even Grace’s glasses looked better cared for than most people.
Grace pushes a button and the bed bends until Simon is in a seated position. Simon watches as Grace pours water from a jug into a cup and holds it out for him. Still, Simon does not move. Grace swallows nervously.
“It’s, uh, not poisoned or anything, if that’s what you’re thinking. Although why would you be thinking that, right?” Grace chuckles into the silence Simon lets sit. “What I mean is, I don't mean you any harm. You’re safe here.”
The word safe reverberates around Simon’s skull. Layered with the voice of his mother and then the voice he’d wanted to swim to out of the darkness earlier. Grace’s voice he discovers with subdued amazement. It was Grace who’d beckoned him back from the void, who’d reignited the dwindling spark of Simon’s life, who’d reminded Simon that he hadn’t clawed his way across the bottom of a blood ocean to surrender at the end.
Simon wants to live. All he’d ever wanted was just to live. And here was another human being, illusory or not, who looked at Simon like he wanted the same thing.
Simon takes the cup from Grace’s hand. “My name is Simon.”
“Simon,” Grace repeats, lips curling pleasantly around the vowels and consonants. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Simon lapses back into unresponsiveness. As the first drops of water quench his parched and aching throat, he considers that it’s not just nice that he’s been pulled from the drowning depths of the blood ocean to sit before Ryland Grace now– it’s a starsdamned miracle.
"I woke up like this" but it's just me feverishly cracking my eyes open, scrambling for my phone and blearily typing out bloodymary fanfic that came to me while I slept
So, dead or alive? Abandoned or absolved? What was he– Simon the Convict, Simon the Butcher– against this backdrop of blackness? Nothing? Everything? Inconsequential? Pivotal? Thoughts eddy through his mind until he is drowning in them.
Until he hears a noise.
A sound that takes shape and defies his muddled understanding of his current existence. Wavelengths that weave the shredded actuality of Simon back into something whole, something that very nearly makes sense.
A voice.
Notes: so I fully plan to keep writing this and kinda just seeing where it takes me. but if this is all that ends up coming from it, well, at least the Simon in my head briefly lived on paper
no thoughts but tortured space yaoi these days. a salute to all of you as we explore these bloody trenches together amen
i'll update ao3 tags as i go (if i go lolz) i'd at least like to get through Simon and Grace meeting
read on ao3 HERE
CH 1: Abandoned or Absolved?
Simon tries to grasp onto the threads of reality, but they slip through his fingers like the fraying edges of a dream before you wake. Desperate, you may be, to cling onto some form of understanding, but there's just not enough material to stitch together something meaningful.
He can remember pain perfectly well. A lot of it. Pain that melded itself to the contours of his bones. Pain that poured itself down his throat and stifled his screams. Pain that flayed open his skin and settled over the muscled sinew underneath, forming a new subcutaneous layer that would forever separate him from the shape of himself. He had been remade in the image of pain. He’d been an already occupied canvas for a cruel artist to defile. Everything he was– painted over, leaving him a palimpsest of himself.
Simon is not in pain now. Though he can't open his eyes and suspects that this is only because he is dead. One small mercy, then, to learn that pain leaves you alone in death. More than he had hoped for. More than he deserved.
Was it wrong to be free of pain when he had inflicted it on sixty-two souls, snuffing out their steadfast survival? Had the Quiet Rapture not taken enough from humanity? Had it really been worth it to take more in service to the Last Tree? What good was it anyway, to any of them, as their population dwindled and the Brothers of Eden clung to the roots of a future that could never grow under a sky full of dead stars?
Simon had long existed in a suspended state of disbelief on Eden. He could, of course, see the Last Tree with his own eyes. Could see the fervor it instilled in his Brothers. Even his own heart wavered when he looked upon those great fluttering leaves. Only his mother’s voice in his ear allowed him to white-knucle himself into a misshapen semblance of resistance. Deformed and imperfect, but Simon had tried. He’d tried to stop them. It hadn’t been enough.
So he’d offered himself in absolution. That hadn’t been enough either. They’d wanted more. His ribs pried open and their own scripture stuffed inside. Different from the one he’d starved himself on in childhood, but leaving him gaunt and nameless all the same.
He thinks of his mother now as he lies in this strange inanimate darkness. How she used to whisper to him. Life begets life, Simon. We cannot sow it in blood or that will be all that we are. That was all Simon had been in the end. Just more blood to seep into an ocean of it.
Simon wonders what happens next, in a detached sort of way. He wonders if he is still at the bottom of AT-5 with miles of boiling crimson pressing down on him. Had the C.O.I retrieved their precious data? Had they squeezed out every bloody drop of usefulness from him before they abandoned him. Abandoned him just like his leaders at Filament Station. Leaving him to become the Butcher slaughtering sheep in the name of a greater purpose.
Simon knew the C.O.I. thought themselves different from Eden. But what were any of them if not enraptured humans obligingly killing each other for the elusive hope of living just a little bit longer?
It occurs to Simon that if he is to spend the rest of his existence as a consciousness floating in an endless ocean of blood, then maybe he was getting the divine sort of justice he deserved after all. Because this was worse than death. Ceasing to exist would’ve been a relief, a reprieve. But like this? Every decision Simon regretted, every choice he hadn’t made played on a loop through his mind. Consuming him, transforming him, mutating him into a figure cobbled together from guilt and remorse.
Simon still can’t quite piece together the moment of his actual death. He had fought the Monster and he had won, but it was a fatal sort of triumph. Though he was fairly certain the Monster had joined him in his vicious victory. He recalls the seed from Eden bursting forth in the blood, burrowing into his skin. Hadn’t it? Is that what he was now? After everything, a new bloody, twisted Last Tree of Eden?
Is the Eye out there watching him? Overseeing his growth in the same way the Father oversaw the Children of Eden. Ushering them further and further into a madness that they couldn’t take back, that would never relinquish them.
Simon remembers the Light. Remembers plunging through it against his will. Coming face-to-face with a demonic deity that looked back at him, through him– and saw something it wanted to devour. Simon had felt it then, clacking through his clenched teeth. The Eye was curious– but not a benevolent sort of wonderment. It was a crushing, catastrophic hunger to comprehend with which the Eye reached out to Simon.
So, dead or alive? Abandoned or absolved? What was he– Simon the Convict, Simon the Butcher– against this backdrop of blackness? Nothing? Everything? Inconsequential? Pivotal? Thoughts eddy through his mind until he is drowning in them.
Until he hears a noise.
A sound that takes shape and defies his muddled understanding of his current existence. Wavelengths that weave the shredded actuality of Simon back into something whole, something that very nearly makes sense.
A voice.
“Hey, you’re okay. I think you’re having trouble waking up, but if you can hear me, you’re safe. Take your time. I’ve got you.”
Simon cannot twitch his muscles to life. Cannot crack a slit into his resolutely shut eyes. Cannot unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth to drop pleading words from his lips. But, jarringly, Simon realizes he is aware of all of these things. Aware of having a body regardless of whether it heeds his commands. Aware of a voice murmuring soft, encouraging words to him overhead.
So though he cannot make his body do any of those things, he yearns towards that voice, towards the damnation it promises to save him from.
Simon is not alone.
And astoundingly, as that voice again whispers that he is safe, Simon covets what he had resigned himself to never touch again– life.
Summary: Ever since Simon catapulted into bizarre, bloody existence aboard the Hail Mary, Grace had been rattled. For the obvious reasons– Simon claimed to come from a world where the stars had already gone dark and humanity nearly extinct– and for the more nebulous, hard-to-pin-down reasons– Simon's haunted eyes and brooding silence stirred something in Grace.
Notes: I first wrote this idea on my tumblr as a short post. but I decided to expand on it because I just keep thinking about them :)
read on ao3 HERE
Ever since Simon catapulted into bizarre, bloody existence aboard the Hail Mary, Grace had been rattled. For the obvious reasons– Simon claimed to come from a world where the stars had already gone dark and humanity nearly extinct– and for the more nebulous, hard-to-pin-down reasons– Simon's haunted eyes and brooding silence stirred something in Grace.
Grace found he wanted to care. Not just in the passive way that one might when comprehending the horrors of the world. But in a visceral, active way. In a way that spoke of tensed muscles and grinding bones. Of air drawing effortlessly into lungs. He wanted to move. To smooth the line that often formed between Simon's brows and sand down the blunt edge to his tone when they spoke of what came next. He wanted to be so alive, so vibrant with it that he’d actuate that apathetic frown Simon often wore into audacious hope. The same hope Grace dared to let himself feel when Rocky first shared his astrophage with him. And even though that plan had gone all to hell, Grace still felt that same throbbing hope tucked safely between his ribs. If Rocky said they’d find a solution when they arrived at Erid, Grace believed him. He wanted Simon to believe, too. Even if they couldn’t find a way back to their own worlds, they could still find a way to live.
The only problem was, Grace wasn’t sure how. Would they really be able to survive after bringing Rocky home to Erid? Grace knew very well that their two species' atmospheres did not mesh. Would a future exist for either of them where the stars still shone?
Grace thought back to Simon’s brutal entrance aboard the Hail Mary. His panicked shouts roused Grace from a nap. He’d blinked so aggressively he thought an eye muscle had been strained, but he must surely still be sleeping. There was no way that crimson stain on the floor was really from a flesh and blood person. He looked to Rocky who waved two of his arms in the air frantically and that was enough to confirm this was not another known alien species who’d suddenly teleported aboard their ship.
Grace followed the spattered dark red trail to the next room and found Simon huddled in a corner, so crusted with blood that it took Grace a moment to piece together that he was human and not some new vermillion local in the galaxy that Grace needed to hope would be as good a neighbor as Rocky. When Simon had finally calmed down enough to explain what had happened to him, Grace had tried very hard to keep his horror from showing on his face. Weren’t they just two peas in a sadistic governmental murder pod? Although, grimly, Grace thought that he might have gotten the better deal after all.
They’d put their heads together trying to determine where Simon came from and how he’d come but mostly this was only theoretical musings. A lot of Grace’s contributions ended up sounding like the plot of an episode of Star Trek. See, Grace thought smugly, this is why you should only send astronauts to space. Astronauts could probably tell you right away why a beaten, battered, red brick of a man had materialized out of nowhere.
Worse than not knowing what came next for them, was Grace's awkward, lacking proficiency in soothing another person. It was not as if he had no skills– he was a teacher after all and what kind of teacher didn’t know how to ease the sting of hurt feelings? But everything he might do was complicated by the fact that any assurances he could make rang hollow like the empty promises they were. Grace was intelligent, but molecular biology could only do so much. This ship had been destined to accomplish one hail mary and unfortunately it wasn’t the one that would save his life– or Simon’s now.
Standing in front of the food storage cabinets, weighing a crinkling packet in his hands, Grace thought that maybe there was at least one thing he could successfully do.
He found Simon where he always did, hunched over wires, fiddling away. Rocky in his environmental crystal dome next to him. They worked in a companionable silence and on more than one occasion Grace had considered whether Simon didn't prefer Rocky's company to Grace's own. The possibility always set off a strange twinge in his chest.
With zero preamble, Grace asked, “Which one of us is more traumatized do you think?”
Simon's fingers flexed over a pair of pliers and he stared up from the floor blankly at Grace. “I'm not answering that.”
Rocky, never one to stay out of a dialogue, added, “Grace ask dumb question, statement.”
Grace never should've started this conversation in front of the world's noisiest roommate. “Well I think it's probably you, Simon.” Simon frowned at him which Grace decided he better not let deter him at this point. He'd hate to humiliate himself for no reason. "I mean you were sent to the bottom of an ocean of blood.”
Simon’s cocked eyebrow conveyed his begrudging engagement with Grace’s latest attempt at small talk. "We were both sent on suicide missions, Grace. I'd say we both drew the short end.”
“Yeah, but I met a cool alien,” Grace pointed at Rocky who pranced in place with what Grace suspected was pride. "And you met one that tried to kill you sooo.” At least this much Grace had gotten Simon to divulge about what had happened to him before he'd appeared on their spaceship broken, bleeding, and belligerently panicked.
Simon stared at him with clear exasperation— a regular and understandable reaction when Grace started rambling. "What is your point with this?” He finally asked.
Grace swallowed hard, suddenly worried that his point was very very stupid. "There's one last packet of ramen left and I want you to have it."
Simon blinked like a deer caught in headlights. Grace blinked like a deer hoping to soon be caught by the vehicle attached to those headlights so he wouldn’t have to continue this conversation.
"And you thought convincing me I was the more traumatized one was the way to tell me this?" Simon clarified.
“Yes?" Grace sheepishly responded, trying to recall when exactly this plan had even formed. He doesn’t remember making a conscious decision to approach Simon in this ludicrous way. He remembered grabbing the ramen packet, thinking about how much Simon loved the crunch of the dried noodles– even though he’d never admit it– and deciding that he’d make sure Simon accepted his offering– one way or another. Apparently, Grace had chosen another, skipping straight past the reasonable way of just giving the ramen to Simon.
"See, Grace dumb, Rocky said bad flirt."
Simon stared up at Grace and Grace stared back, both of their skin flushing as the blood rushed up their necks and into their cheeks– mercifully inside their bodies although Grace thought vigorously bleeding from an open wound right now would be a pretty decent distraction from his embarrassment.
When did he ever tell Rocky that he wanted to flirt with Simon? Yes, admittedly, he’d asked Rocky very casually what flirting looked like between Erids and very briefly outlined some of his own past attempts, which Rocky had been unimpressed by. But he’d never once mentioned Simon’s name. And if his name just so happened to be lodged at the back of his mind while talking about human and Erid courtship customs, there was no way Rocky could know that!
Rocky slid into his crystal ball– none the wiser that he’d just dropped a bomb aboard this delicately pressurized spacecraft– and merrily rolled away.
Grace realized he was still standing there, like an idiot, holding the package of ramen stretched out towards Simon. Before he could withdraw first the noodles and then himself– preferably into a storage cupboard for the remainder of his journey left to Erid– Simon’s calloused fingers closed over the package. The tip of his index finger brushed against Grace’s knuckle.
Simon locked eyes with him for a moment, then looked away. Grace released his grip on the ramen. “Thanks for this,” Simon said, his voice gruff.
Grace nodded, his tongue feeling too big to form words correctly in his mouth. As he lay in his bunk later, he debated back and forth. Good flirt or bad flirt? He traced the swell of his knuckle, a soft smile playing across his lips.
imagining a conversation where Grace is like "which one of us is more traumatized do you think?" And Simon just stares at him blankly before saying "I'm not answering that." And Rocky pipes in like "Grace ask dumb question, statement." And Grace is like "well I think it's probably you, Simon" *Simon glowers which does not deter Grace* "I mean you were sent to the bottom of an ocean of blood." Simon begrudgingly engages, "We were both sent on suicide missions, Grace." "Yeah, but I met a cool alien" *points at Rocky who does a lil dance* "and you met one that tried to kill you sooo." Simon exasperated, "What is your point with this?" .... "There's one last packet of ramen left and I want you to have it." Simon blinks like a deer in headlights "and you thought convincing me I was the more traumatized one was the way to tell me this?" Grace sheepishly responds "yes?" .... "See Grace dumb, Rocky said bad flirt." And then they both flush bright red while Rocky merrily rolls away in his little ball none the wiser that he's just dropped a bomb
Summary: When Misa is brought to the Beach, she sees it for what it is: a prison promising paradise. With a sharp intellect and strong survival skills, the Borderland is hardly Misa’s first time fighting for a chance at life. Chishiya approaches her as an unlikely ally. But can she really trust what lies behind that cheshire cat smile?
Chishiya’s nihilism is challenged when he meets Misa. A woman compassionate enough to risk her life to save others. Yet, pragmatic enough to only do it with an exit plan. His curiosity is piqued when Misa sees his ruthlessness and meets it head on with her own realism.
Will they be able to find their way through the Borderland together? Finding the beauty in such a brutal place... one deadly game at a time.
Notes: the soundtrack for writing this fic include: Irresistible by Fall Out Boy, Lonely by RM, Vampire by Olivia Rodrigo, Calico by DPR IAN, Bitter by Memi ft Staffan Carlen, Break My Heart Myself by Bebe Rexha, Sure Thing by Miguel
read on ao3 from the beginning here
CH 10: I Might Start Thinking You Care
~Misa~
Misa is awoken the following morning by a soft rap on her door. She rubs the vestiges of sleep out of her eyes, pulling her jacket over her shoulders. She kneels in the desk chair against her door to get close enough to see through the peephole. Surprise washes the last of her drowsiness away when she sees a familiar blonde head. Why is Chishiya at her door for a second morning in a row? She drags the chair backwards then yanks the door open.
“What’s going on?”
Chishiya’s eyes flit to the desk chair discarded behind her. “You weren’t answering your radio.”
“My radio?” She drags a hand through her hair, wading through the early morning brain fog. Then she remembers. Moving to her bedside table, she retrieves the walkie talkie Chishiya had given her yesterday. She’d switched the volume off and stuffed it in the drawer before going to bed last night. “Sorry. What’s up?”
“There’s news. The executives are gathering.”
“I’m not an executive. Why do I need to be there?”
“I invited Arisu, too. I think he’ll find your presence reassuring. Besides, Ann recruited you on the basis of you having executive potential, remember?”
Misa frowns, she hasn't spoken a word to Ann since then. She doubts anyone cares whether she becomes an executive or not, but she follows Chishiya downstairs to a conference room anyway.
They round a corner just in time to see two militants step forward and block Arisu and Usagi’s path. Icy distress skates down her spine when Niragi also un-peals himself from the wall, rifle hoisted at his side.
“Where did you guys come from? We didn’t ask you guys to come here.” Niragi menaces.
“I called him over,” Chishiya asserts.
Niragi scoffs. “Hey, don't go gathering people on your own.”
“There’s something important he has to hear. Let’s go in,” he directs to Arisu.
Niragi holds out a hand in Misa’s direction. “What about her?”
An imperceptible tip of Chishiya’s head. “She’s with me.”
“Oh, really? You should learn to share then, Chishiya,” Niragi snickers.
Misa grinds her teeth. Chishiya ignores him, walking to the closed double doors. This feels like the antithesis of keeping her out of Niragi’s path. What the hell does Chishiya want her and Arisu to hear so badly?
Arisu is allowed through and she hears him tell Usagi that he’ll see her later, before he joins Chishiya at the doors. “What happened?” He asks.
Chishiya’s smile confirms to Misa that he already has some idea of what’s going on. “Who knows? It must be something serious.” He shoves the doors open and she and Arisu quietly trail him inside.
Misa’s heart skips a beat and her breath hitches in her throat. Her eyes are saucer-wide as she absorbs the sight of the body laid out on the long conference room table. It’s not the presence of a corpse that disorients her. It’s the presence of this corpse and what it means for them all. A quick scan of the room reveals that, aside from a handful of militants posted along the walls, she and Arisu are the only non-executive members present.
Hatter lies rigid and waxen. No breath moves his lungs. That vibrant, egotistical cult persona snuffed out. Misa didn’t care about Hatter, but she knew the new depths of darkness that would be ushered in once his life was extinguished. He was responsible for the deaths of many. If the militants seized control, that death toll would rapidly rise.
Kuzuryu announces that he’ll be the next leader since he’s number two. Misa looks at the bespectacled man with something close to sympathy. If he really believed that was how this was going to go, then he didn’t even deserve to be number two.
Nirgai protests that it should be the strongest person, gaze travelling to Aguni who stands stoically at the head of the table over Hatter’s body. He doesn’t respond and Nirgai declares that they should take a vote. Silence as still as the grave. None of the executives want this, then. Do they really think they have a choice? Niragi calls on Last Boss who springs forward, drawing his sword. He points it at Ann. Niragi, self-satisfied, asks for a vote again. Misa’s heartbeat pounds as around her hands tentatively raise into the air. Beside her, Chishiya doesn’t move.
This draws Niragi’s ire. He raises his rifle, gesticulating with it towards Chishiya. “What about you?”
Chishiya looks over at him slowly, saying nothing. Misa resists the urge to yank his hand into the air in a ‘yes’ vote herself. She doesn't agree with any of this either, but it’s not worth dying over. Was Chishiya truly not afraid of being killed? Niragi has a gun. What good are his cocky quips against steel shrapnel?
Niragi lowers the rifle, stepping closer. “Are you looking down on us, Chishiya?”
“But you guys really are stupid,” Chishiya replies and Misa closes her eyes, braced for the impact of lead into Chishiya’s soft, very breakable body.
Niragi steps further into Chishiya’s space, pressing the rifle up under his chin so that Chishiya has to lift his head. “Those eyes of yours really piss me off. It’s so condescending.”
Chishiya takes a small step back, which presses him against Misa. She fists a hand into the back of his hoodie, not entirely sure what she’s planning to do. The general idea involves hanging onto this madman and running like hell. Can she move faster than a bullet? Can she convince Chishiya to move faster than one?
Chishiya raises both of his hands into the air, a mocking smile on his face. “I vote for Aguni to be the leader.” He smirks down at the rifle still pointed at him. “Are you all right with losing me as a precious ‘yes’ vote?”
Nirgai scoffs but lowers the gun, stepping backwards. He says, “Well, I hope you reflect on how you should act in the future.” He leers at Misa, lips pulling into something ugly when he sees her clutched onto Chishiya. “I think we scared your little girlfriend. You should be more considerate or she might just find someone else to take care of her.”
Chishiya laughs, low and mirthless. “Sorry. You’re not her type.”
Niragi flicks his tongue against the corner of his mouth, turning his agitation on Arisu. “Hey, what are you spacing out for?” When Arisu doesn’t respond, Niragi strides towards him, raising that damned rifle once more. “Were you never taught that you should reply to people? Whose side are you on?” Arisu flinches back, fear etched into his features.
Unexpectedly, Last Boss lunges forward thrusting his sword at Arisu. Misa fists a second hand into Chishiya’s hoodie, this one at his forearm. He angles towards her, his arm pressing into her stomach. His head knocks to the side a fraction of an inch, but Misa gets the message. Don’t react, don’t move, do nothing. Misa doesn’t really need to be told. She’s powerless to do anything in this situation. They all are. She clings to Chishiya not in a silent plea for him to do something, but to hold herself steadily in check. Chishiya is like a lighthouse in the middle of this hurricane. They just have to survive this and he had a plan to guide them to safe harbor.
Niragi’s laughter booms across the room. “You were really scared for a moment there, right? That’s so funny!”
Arisu tentatively raises his hand in a ‘yes’ vote, eyes darting to Misa. She nods faintly to affirm his choice.
Niragi stalks around the circle. “All right. Suddenly everyone’s voting ‘yes.’ So the new leader is decided, right?”
Mira speaks up. “Hatter would not have allowed this. If he were alive, he would not have allowed this.”
Niragi laughs scathingly. “But he’s dead.” Then he hits Hatter in the head with the butt of his rifle, the crunch sickening. “The dead won’t know what’s going on.” He lays into him several more times, spitting on him. Most people avert their eyes, but Misa can’t look away. This fate awaits them all. Flesh minced at the end of Niragi’s maniacal reach. She doesn’t realize she’s gripping onto Chishiya’s arm, hard, until his hand comes up to cover her own. He doesn’t pry her fingers loose. His grip tightens around hers briefly then drops back to his side.
Finally, Aguni interrupts Niragi’s tirade. “Enough. From today onwards, I will be the Beach’s new king.”
“Isn’t this wonderful,” Niragi declares, clapping, “Now boss, what’s left is the succession ceremony. Let’s open the black envelope.”
Robotically, the other executives begin to move. Presumably, succession plans are discussed but Misa computes none of it. She’s as rigid as the stone walls surrounding them. She only snaps out of it when Arisu places a hand on her shoulder.
“Come on.” His head tilts towards where Chishiya is already at the door. Misa hadn’t registered him escaping her grip. She looks once more at Hatter’s body, her eyes catching Niragi’s who curls his tongue at her.
Misa’s stomach churns. She’s silent the entire journey to meet up with Usagi and Kuina. She’s not in shock. She’s not frozen. She’s in preparation. Their plan must work. There is no alternative. She will not die here, to the cruelty of men. Not after everything.
~Chishiya~
Sequestered in an empty room, Chishiya is at last ready to lay his plan out for everyone. Misa sits on the sofa next to his armchair, Kuina beside her. Arisu sits on the edge of a bed and Usagi stands.
A solemnity fell over Misa after the conference room. She sits ramrod straight, hands clasped in her lap, hair cascading over her shoulders. In her moment of distress, she’d reached for him. It bolstered Chishiya in an unprecedented way. He didn’t require others to feel self-assured.
“The black envelope,” he begins, drawing everyone’s attention to him. “The poker cards gathered by all the members of the Beach are kept in the safe in Hatter’s royal suite room. The passcode to the safe is kept and sealed inside the black envelope. The envelope is opaque and is kept in utmost secrecy, and can be opened only when there is a new Number One. The new Number One will check the passcode alone in front of all the executive members. Then, they will place the paper with the passcode written on it into a new envelope and seal it again. It will then be signed by all executive members before it’s stashed away again.”
Misa nods along with his explanation as if she expected as much. “What do we need to do?”
“First, Arisu will infiltrate the royal suite. Then he will search for the safe and steal all the playing cards inside.”
“What about the passcode?” Arisu questions. Misa finally breaks her thousand yard stare to look over at him, as if she would like for him to answer this, too.
“I have an idea of that. I’ll tell you when you’re in front of the safe.” He passes a walkie talkie onto the coffee table towards Arisu. “It’s set to a private channel. We’ll be able to communicate with each other.”
“You're really cautious,” Arisu comments, but picks up the radio. “I got it.”
“Usagi, Kuina and Misa will be on the lookout.” Chishiya places another walkie talkie onto the coffee table between them for Usagi.
“This is too dangerous. If we’re discovered, we’ll be killed.” Usagi sounds upset. Chishiya supposes that’s understandable and she doesn't even know the half of it. Chishiya follows that thought to Misa. Her expression is grim. She doesn’t disagree with Usagi’s evaluation– but she doesn’t agree enough to voice objections to this plan. Chishiya’s eyes roam over the slope of her nose, the taut line of her lips. Would she reach for him again once she discovered what he was about to do?
Arisu faces Usagi. “This is the only way to change the current situation. Now that Hatter is dead and there’s no unity at the Beach, the time is right for this plan.”
Usagi is silent in tacit agreement. No further objections are made. Chishiya directs the group to where they should take up posts to wait and they all depart, save for Misa. “Meet me at the lobby balconies after the executives meeting,” he tells her. “Aguni will surely gather everyone there for a succession speech. That will be our chance.”
“Shouldn’t I be monitoring the halls like everyone else?”
That may be true. The Beach is massive and the more eyes on it that they can get, the better. Yet some enigmatic force in him compels him to keep her close. Is he perhaps savoring their last moments together? When he is through with Arisu, will she be through with him? This could be his final command that she unerringly follows. Anticipating an absence– it’s a bittersweet flavor he’s unaccustomed to. No matter. It is nothing worth abandoning his goals for.
“I need your eyes on Aguni and his militants with me.”
Misa doesn’t object. “Whatever you plan to do to get the code…” Her fingers flex at her side, curling into a fist before loosening again. “Be careful.”
Chishiya’s slow grin prowls out across his face. “You should be careful, Misa. I might start thinking you care.”
Her mouth forms a smile but the shape holds no joy. Not for the first time, Chishiya wonders what exactly has happened to her in life to make her this way. “Would that really be so bad, Chishiya? We all have to care about something in order to survive.” The door clicks softly shut behind her.
A bird flies past the window. Late afternoon sunlight spills over the carpet, the leaves on the trees outside casting shadows that flicker over the ground. Though Chishiya watches them dance, his mind is on another shadow in his life, looming further and further out of his reach.
***
The executives meeting is a funereal affair. It’s not for Hatter people mourn, but for the loss of an artificial protection. The black envelope is opened by Aguni as they all sit silently. It’s almost too easy, Chishiya thinks, studying Aguni as he flips open the folded piece of paper inside. He patiently waits until the envelope is resealed and the meeting is dismissed with a command to head to the lobby annex.
Chishiya finds Misa right where he asked her to be. Her arms are folded across her stomach. At his approach, she pushes the hood off her head and asks, “How did it go?”
“According to plan.”
Misa’s fingers glide through her hair, drawing the strands together in a braid. Her pre-game ritual. Her transformation to signal chaos is impending. A muscle ticks in her jaw when the siren that prompts the Beach’s residents to gather blares through the loudspeakers. Niragi’s words announcing Aguni’s succession are an insignificant hum in his ears. Chishiya doesn’t care about their supercilious display.
“The new leader is making a speech in the lobby. All executive members and the militants are at the annex. We won’t get another chance like this. I’ll let you guys know if there are any changes. I’m counting on you, Arisu.”
Arisu radios back, his voice doubling over itself from the walkie talkies in Chishiya’s hand and tucked into Misa’s hoodie pocket. “Understood.”
“What now?” Misa whispers.
“Now, we wait.” Chishiya must time this next bit carefully.
A handful of minutes pass, Misa chewing on her lip to cope, before Arisu radios again. “I found it. So, what’s the passcode?”
“It’s 8022.” Immediately, Chishiya is exiting the nook of the balcony.
Misa keeps pace next to him. “Hey, where are you going?” He ignores her and continues moving. Time is of the essence.
“Did you see the contents of the letter?” Arisu asks and Chishiya can tell by Misa’s raised hands that she has the same question, along with a few more.
“No. But Aguni’s expression told me everything. That instant, Aguni’s face looked dark. It was as if he was surprised and perplexed. I’m sure the contents must be empty.”
“Empty? Then what about the passcode you told me?”
They hit the annex floor landing and Misa flings out a hand against Chishiya’s chest, physically stopping him so they’re face to face. “What’s going on, Chishiya? Where are you going?” Chishiya would swear he can feel the slightest tremble in the fingertips she presses over his heart.
Chishiya exhales like a laugh, relishing in a moment of self-congratulation. He holds Misa’s gaze. “The wax seal. It was embossed with the boss ring and it formed numbers. That was the code itself. It’s 8022.”
“I wouldn’t want to be your enemy.” Arisu sounds awed, even through a radio message.
Chishiya veers around Misa, switching his radio off and closing the gap to the annex. Aguni’s speech is already over and his group fills the hall, heading in their direction. “Aguni,” Chishiya calls out. “I saw someone loitering around the royal suite during your speech. They seemed suspicious. I thought you should know.” His words work like a charm, Aguni and the militants rush off. Chishiya follows.
Misa stands in stunned silence for several seconds before she hurries after him. The militants, intent on their target, pay them little mind, but Chishiya reaches over and dials off the volume on Misa’s radio.
Misa pales, looking down at the radio in her hands then back up at him. He can see brick by brick the betrayal building between them, him the architect of this maleficent masonry. “What have you done, Chishiya?”
“What I needed to.”
“We have to warn him!” She hisses.
Chishiya clamps a hand over hers around the radio before she can raise it to her lips. “You do that, and you’re dead right alongside him.”
She blinks at him. “Is that a threat?”
Chishiya’s hand twitches over hers. “I have no desire to threaten you, Misa. That’s simply advice. It’s too late to stop this.”
She yanks her hand from his grip, but continues to match his steps.
They arrive at the royal suite mere minutes after Arisu’s initial radio call. Usagi is apprehended at once, a hand clapped over her mouth to silence her. She is dragged into the room adjoining the main suite. Chishiya catches Misa’s wrist when he feels her recoil, shaking his head discreetly. Aguni signals for quiet and the group creeps into the royal suite. Arisu is too flustered to notice, still pressing buttons in an attempt to silence the beeping safe.
Niragi shatters the scene. “You really came in so brazenly.”
Chishiya smiles and tosses the radio in his hands, unable to stop himself from gloating at his successful manipulation. Misa is like crumbling stone just behind his shoulder, but he trusts that she’s smart enough not to implicate them, not to fall apart in a room full of predators. He must be included in that count now.
“Why?” Arisu’s devastation falls on deadened sympathy from him.
From a side room, Usagi is dragged inside, yelling “let me go” as she thrashes against her captors. Arisu screams her name and tries to rush to her.
Niragi hits him in the face with the butt of his rifle, the wet impact causing Usagi to wail Arisu’s name. Misa presses her palm into his back, so hard he has to brace himself to keep from stepping forward.
“Stop shouting for Usagi, you idiot!” Niragi kicks Arisu in the stomach once, then many times. Each kick twists Misa’s fist tighter into the fabric of his hoodie, so tight, Chishiya’s sure her knuckles must be a bloodless white. Is she thinking about shoving Chishiya into the circle of death so that he may take Arisu’s place?
Aguni addresses Chishiya over his shoulder. “You saved me, Chishiya. We caught them thanks to your perceptiveness.”
“No problem. It was what I should do.” Everyone else watches the violent beating Niragi unleashes on Arisu, but Chishiya watches Aguni, the crux of his plan falling perfectly into place.
Arisu is a bloody, blubbering mess. “What? Oh my. Are you sleepy already?” Niragi lifts Arisu’s head off the floor by his hair. “Bring him to that room!” He orders.
Both Arisu and Usagi are disappeared out of sight. They’d stay that way in Chishiya’s mind, except Misa’s nails dig into his sleeve as she pulls him out the door when they’re dismissed by Aguni. She marches them into the first empty room she can find and Chishiya knows he’ll have to spare a few more thoughts for the lambs he’s led to slaughter.
“Are you planning to attack me, Misa?” He asks just to rile her up, just to see if she would.
“No, Chishiya Shuntaro! Fucking hell!” She tries to rake a hand through her hair, forgetting it’s in a braid. Her fingers catch and several strands fall loose around her face. “I don’t want to hurt you. I want to know why?”
“I needed Arisu to reveal the real location of the safe. I could only get that by observing Aguni’s behaviors when threatened.”
“We could’ve just searched the room for it. We had time.”
“Did we? You saw how fast this all happened. Would we have had time to search everywhere before Aguni came back? Before a militant noticed? Would you have taken that risk?”
“Yes!” Misa nearly screams and Chishiya believes her. She would’ve taken on the danger if it kept Arisu and Usagi out of it. “But you didn’t think to ask, did you? You decided to use people and god,” she drops her head back in a harsh laugh at the ceiling. “I got used right along with them.”
“I’m going to get the cards now. And we can leave.” Misa’s incredulity is expected, but Chishiya felt he had to try. She could still be useful. Hers would’ve been an inane sacrifice. She works with him in a way Arisu could not.
“I’m going to find Usagi and Arisu. To get them out of here.”
“The militants will kill you.”
Tears fall elegantly down her cheeks, like she’s shed countless and finds the process as commonplace as summer rain. Hardly anything to make a spectacle over. “The one thing I wanted. To keep Usagi away from Niragi. You couldn’t even give me that.”
“I never promised to, Misa.”
“Maybe not. But you looked me in the eye and validated that you know exactly what Niragi is. That could’ve been me, Chishiya.”
He looks at her like the curiosity that she is. Is he meant to care about what might happen to the other woman because he cared about it when it could happen to Misa? There was nothing more he needed from Usagi. What he still needs from Misa is nebulous, yet notable enough to warrant his care. “I ensured it wouldn’t be you.”
She grimaces, her anger giving way to dolefulness. “Did you think I would stay with you after this?”
No, but despite how he detested the concept, there had been a kernel-sized hope. “I won’t wait for you to leave.”
“I won’t ask you to.” She steps into him, so close that if he angled his head down a little more, their noses might brush. “You only seem to help me when you think it benefits you.” Her head drops to the ground, shaking back and forth slowly. Her eyes seek him out again. “And I’m the idiot who’s going to miss that.” Her lips press petal soft against his cheek. “Good luck, Chishiya. I hope you find what you’re looking for out there.”
Like a flower wilting into decay, she’s gone. Leaving behind a rotten soil that may never grow anything again. That’s fine, Chishiya never had any desire to garden.
~Misa~
Misa stumbles from the room in a stupor. Her fingers graze down the wall to steady her. She let this happen. She knew there was something Chishiya wasn’t telling her. Had felt it like a wiggling worm in her stomach that she’d ignored. Arisu wasn’t needed for this plan– unless he was only ever meant to be a disposable part of it. Like a paper towel you used to sop up a mess and provide yourself with a clean slate to work on.
Worse than her guilt for what might be happening to Arisu and Usagi, is her guilt at the pain of wrenching herself away from Chishiya. And her shame. It shouldn’t be this hard to walk away from a man who willfully serves his allies up on a silver platter. So what if he’d left her off the main course menu? Maybe Misa is more monstrous than she’d like to think because, damn her, she was going to miss him. His bluntness, his soothing self-assuredness in the face of death, their quiet conversations. She might hate herself for it, but he made her feel less lonely, less alone.
But he’d never really been with her, had he? Hubris of her to think otherwise. Or maybe he had, but what was she to do with someone who weighed the value of people’s lives in the palm of his hands and decided some were worth more than others?
Kuina materializes in front of her. “What happened?”
“Don’t you know?”
“Did we get the cards?”
“Ask Chishiya.” Misa steps around her and doesn’t look back. She doesn’t want to know how big of a part Kuina played in this betrayal.
Misa has no idea where the militants would have taken Arisu and Usagi. She takes a deep breath to steady the wobble in her legs. She’ll search this place room by room if she has to. She has to make this right. She has to put distance between herself and this callous calamity she let break her heart.
~Chishiya~
Aguni is busy with establishing his reign over the Beach. Chishiya doesn’t have to wait long before his opportunity presents itself.
“Kuina, how are things on your side?” Chishiya radios.
“Aguni is still in his room. I'm so bored now.” Kuina has monitored Aguni for signs that he planned to move into the royal suite, but following a round of duties at the Beach he retired to his former room and remained there.
“Then, shall we proceed with our plan?” Chishiya enters the suite. It’s dim and empty. “I don't know if Arisu is clever or stupid. There's no way the cards would be kept in an ordinary safe.”
“Then where is the real safe?”
“When Arisu found the fake safe, Aguni, who usually does not waver, was looking toward a certain location. I believe that the contents of the envelope did not contain a passcode or an empty letter…but instead it might have been a drawing.” Chishiya zeroes in on the deer portrait hanging on the wall, unhooking it. “Found it.” Too easy. These militants really were leagues beneath him.
“So you used him for this? Does Misa know?” Kuina’s disquiet is apparent.
“To gain something, you need to lose something,” Chishiya replies, a phantom velvet-soft pressure ghosting against his cheek. That’s all he’s done. Traded an alliance for something greater. “He's just a sacrifice. Things like this happen often, don't they?”
“No, not at all. I really don't want to be your enemy.”
Chishiya smiles. “People often tell me that.” He opens the safe, collecting the cards, everything he’s worked for firmly in his hands. “Meet you at the gate.
He wastes no time joining Kuina outside. Lingering at the Beach now will only invite trouble. “I guess it's time to say goodbye to this, too.” Chishiya says, removing his wristband as he walks past Kuina.
“Don't you feel sorry for him? Arisu, I mean.”
“Feel sorry?” Surely she wasn’t about to go the same way as Misa.
“Yes. I feel really sorry for him.”
Chishiya stops, turning to her. “Is there anything we can't do in order to survive? If you're so worried, then you should help him, Kuina.”
“Where’s Misa?”
“She won’t be coming with us.”
“She’s upset about Arisu isn’t she?”
Chishiya turns to leave again. “Whatever Misa is, it’s not my concern.”
“If she tries to help him she’s going to get herself killed.”
“And? That’s her choice, not mine.”
Kuina sighs. “I liked her.” Still, she walks towards Chishiya and the archway exit.
That’s when he sees it. “Don't tell me…” He studies the brick intently. “Stop right there,” he barks at Kuina. He tosses his wristband through the arch and it's immediately zapped by lasers.
“Seriously,” Kuina says as she moves closer and spots the laser grid herself.
An announcement plays overhead. “Thank you for staying at Seaside Paradise Tokyo. As a token of our appreciation, we will now commence a game for all the guests in the hotel. Difficulty ten of hearts. We will now be explaining the rules. All players are to assemble in the lobby.”
This was going to be interesting. The Beach looms behind them, brightly lit as game arena electricity sparks throughout the compound. Chishiya watches the windows pop into square after square of yellow illumination. Would this help to lengthen Misa’s lifespan at the hands of the militants? Chishiya shoves his hands into his pockets, heading back inside.
Summary: When Misa is brought to the Beach, she sees it for what it is: a prison promising paradise. With a sharp intellect and strong survival skills, the Borderland is hardly Misa’s first time fighting for a chance at life. Chishiya approaches her as an unlikely ally. But can she really trust what lies behind that cheshire cat smile?
Chishiya’s nihilism is challenged when he meets Misa. A woman compassionate enough to risk her life to save others. Yet, pragmatic enough to only do it with an exit plan. His curiosity is piqued when Misa sees his ruthlessness and meets it head on with her own realism.
Will they be able to find their way through the Borderland together? Finding the beauty in such a brutal place... one deadly game at a time.
read on ao3 here
CH 9: You Should Really Be Careful Who You Trust
~Misa~
Misa wakes late in the night with only a mild headache and sore muscles, much to her relief. She knows it’s not in her best interest to fall asleep immediately following a head injury but she’d felt too heavy to resist, her eyes refusing to listen to her commands to stay open. And too safe, she must admit, with Chishiya at her side. Chishiya. A brief scan around the room reveals that Misa is alone. She’s still on the floor, but a pillow has been placed under her head. Chishiya’s knife and taser are neatly arranged on the bedside table. Misa stares at them for several breaths, swallowing around a lump in her throat.
This feels like more than Chishiya simply wanting her alive. He wants her safe. Foolish, she chides herself, letting her mind run off in flights of fancy. Whatever Chishiya wants, he only wants it because it is of benefit to him.
Misa forces herself to go downstairs for a late lunch, closer to dinner, really. She’s pleasantly surprised when she runs into Kuina on the way to the dining hall.
Kuina pops the dummy cigarette out of her mouth and points it at Misa, eyes wide. “What the hell happened to you?”
Misa knows she refers to the bruises on her cheek and around her throat. Though Misa has her hoodie jacket zipped up all the way and the hood raised, it’s impossible to miss the purple and blue clusters. “Had a run in with Niragi.”
Kuina’s expression darkens. “I just saw Chishiya. He said Niragi was stabbed.”
“I’m guessing he left out the part where I was the one who did the stabbing?”
“Good,” Kuina says. “I only wish you’d killed the bastard.”
“You and me both.” Which reminds Misa. “Chishiya says he has a plan to get out of here?”
Kuina nods. “I was coming to find you actually. He wants us to meet him in his room.”
They make a stop for food for Misa first. Already, the facade of the Beach is wearing thin. The fresh produce present when Misa first joined already rapidly depleted to offerings of dried and canned goods. Only the everpresent loudly thumping music from the pool and basement lounge appears unshakeable. The Beach might run out of food eventually, but hey, at least they can all still dance themselves into oblivion.
Misa has finished her meager meal by the time they arrive at Chishiya's room. He’s waiting for them, seated at the desk chair. He waves a hand at the bed, inviting them to take a seat. Kuina opts to lean against the wall beside the bed, but Misa sinks onto a corner of the mattress.
“I have an idea,” Chishiya opens.
Misa exchanges a look with Kuina before replying, “Let’s hear it.”
“I want to steal the cards from Hatter and then leave the Beach.”
Misa blinks once, twice. “Well, that’s certainly an idea. Not much of a plan.”
Chishiya smiles at her. “The cards are kept in a safe in Hatter’s suite. I can work out what the passcode is, but we’ll need someone to go to the safe and retrieve the cards for us.”
Misa narrows her eyes. “So you want one of us to do that?”
“No,” Chishiya shakes his head. “I need you two to be lookouts. We need to find someone else. Someone smart enough not to get caught or rat us out.”
Misa cocks her head to the side, an unexplainable sense of unease creeping up her spine. “Then why don’t you do it?”
Chishiya fixes her in his still-water gaze. “I’m too conspicuous as an executive.”
Misa dips her chin and bites her cheek, looking back up at him. “Rule number one, Chishiya.”
His lips part but for a moment he says nothing, just stares at her so intently Kuina nervously clears her throat. Then he smiles once more. “It’s not worth the risk to my personal safety. A third party, maybe someone newer to the Beach, will draw less attention.”
They will be easier to manipulate, Misa thinks darkly. But at least they’d be manipulated into helping them all escape this godforsaken place.
“If we get caught, the militants will kill us.” Kuina doesn’t sound particularly apprehensive about this.
Chishiya gestures to Misa’s face. “The militants are already a liability. Hatter barely has them on a leash and it’s only a matter of time before he’s usurped. Things aren’t going to improve then.”
Misa rubs her fingers over her mottled throat. Chishiya’s eyes briefly flick down, tracking the movement. As it stands, the people in this room are her only allies. Her only chance of escaping this place alive. It’s not as if she’s coming up with a better plan. “Okay, I’m in.” She glances at Kuina who shrugs and nods her acquiescence as well.
In the distance, the telltale blare of an electronic siren rings out, signaling the time has come to gather for game assignments. Kuina unslouches from the wall, heading towards the door. “I have to play a game tonight.”
“I’ll go down with you,” Misa offers. Kuina smiles in thanks. As they head out the door, Misa is surprised when Chishiya follows behind them.
At her questioning look he smirks. “Time to start scouting.”
The members of the Beach flood into the lobby. Executives orchestrate the distribution of car assignments for the games. Chishiya flipped his hood onto his head upon entering the space, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. Their group of three merges with the larger crowd. Misa catches Chishiya’s watchful gaze scanning the room, so she does the same, though she’s not exactly sure what qualifications for recruitment to their cause she’s meant to seek out.
Abruptly Kuina laughs. She and Chishiya both turn to look at her. She points a finger back and forth between them. “You two. You’re like two peas in a pod.”
Misa looks down at her own hands shoved into her jacket pockets, her hood still pulled over her head in a futile attempt to hide her bruised skin. She’s not sure why she’s bothering except that she doesn’t want Niragi to see it if she has the misfortune of running into that scumbag before she's healed. The idea of him knowing he left a mark on her sets her teeth on edge. She wants to be the only one triumphant in their violent exchange.
When she looks up, Chishiya grins at her, slow and lazy. “I thought you didn’t care for my fashion sense.”
“If you’ll recall, I believe it was specifically your color choice I took issue with.”
“See, two peas in a pod,” Kuina affectionately interjects.
~Chishiya~
They wait as the Beach assembles, moving over to idle beside a pillar as people begin circulating outside with their assignments. Kuina leans a shoulder against the stone column and Chishiya rests his back against it. Misa does neither. She stands upright, posture tense, her back to him as she surveys the crowd in front of them. Yet again, she puts her trust in him on display. Is it a ruse? Does she only want him to think she trusts him to watch her back? Before he can mull it over any further, his eyes snag on two familiar figures.
“What’s up? Do you know them?” Kuina asks, following his line of sight.
“We played a game with those two,” he answers.
Misa is already watching them. No doubt she clocked them as soon as Chishiya did. What made her such a keen observer? Her work in the hospital? “They helped us clear the game,” Misa tells Kuina.
And just like that, the pieces on Chishiya’s chessboard fall into place. “They might be useful. To our plan, that is.” Misa’s back is to him, but he notices her shoulders visibly stiffen. Curious. Does she know that man and woman? Chishiya doesn’t think so, they’d exchanged no greetings to indicate they were acquainted.
Kuina receives her assignment and heads off with a worried “be safe” from Misa and a carefree wave from him. Kuina would either return or she wouldn’t. There was nothing Chishiya could do about it. It wasn’t his preference, but he could still make his plan work without her if she died tonight.
Misa tucks an arm against her stomach and drums her fingertips against her bottom lip. A quirk, Chishiya is discovering, to indicate she is deep in thought. She maintains this posture until they’re sequestered in her room. Chishiya isn’t entirely sure why he followed her. Mostly out of amusement at the way she clearly registered his presence– matching her pace to his– but didn’t stop him from tagging along.
Her hotel room door swings shut behind them before she finally drops her arms to her sides and speaks. “You want to use them to go get the cards.”
The statement itself isn’t a question, but he can see there's one lurking just behind the punctuation mark. “One of them, yes.”
“The man, correct?”
Chishiya nods.
“Good. Leave the woman out of it.” Misa sighs, turning to fall backwards onto her bed, her arms starfished out. The gesture is so peculiarly juxtaposed with her serious tone that Chishiya can’t stifle his laugh. She raises her head to roll her eyes at him. “I know this operation will be dangerous no matter what. But I don’t want to be the reason another woman ends up in Niragi’s sights. So don’t recruit her.”
Chishiya sits next to her on the bed. She pushes herself up onto her elbows to regard him. He wonders if she’s going to tell him to move. She sits up, folding one leg onto the bed under her so she can turn to face him. “Can you promise me, Chishiya?”
“No,” he answers honestly, just like she wants. “Maybe you didn’t notice, but I think they come as a set.”
Misa contemplates this, biting into her bottom lip, another of her quirks. Her teeth leave momentary pale depressions on her skin, there and gone as quickly as snow melting on pavement. “Of course. A trauma bond.” She whispers as if she’s talking to herself. “Fine, then she can be lookouts with me and Kuina.”
“Deal.”
“Thank you for coming to find me.” Chishiya pauses at her words. Here comes more of her insistence on his alleged kindness towards her. But then, “I know you did it for you. But you still did it.” She glares at him as if daring him to argue with her factually correct deduction.
“I did do it for me. Alive, we can continue to work together. Dead, we cannot.” He smiles, tossing his head cavalierly for emphasis.
“Niragi didn’t want me dead.”
The hard line of Misa’s words are like a chisel set to his stone. Only he’s not sure what shape she means to carve out of him. “I know what Niragi wanted,” he replies slowly.
“Then I hope I can trust you not to do anything that would ever see Niragi get what he wants.”
The atmosphere in the room has shifted, like stepping into the eye of a storm. Chishiya notices the taser and knife are missing from where he’d placed them on her nightstand. Did she mean to attack him if she didn’t like his answer? But he stares into her fathomless brown eyes and doesn’t see threat, only challenge. A test. “Men like Niragi are a disgrace to humankind.”
Misa playfully punches his shoulder. “It’s nice when we agree on something.”
“I think we may agree on a lot of things,” Chishiya retorts. “You’re not afraid to be alone with me. You never have been, have you?” Chishiya is remembering her first day at the Beach, her uneasiness in the wardrobe room. He’d thought it was a general distrust directed at him, the entire situation. Now, he’s not sure how much of a factor he’d ever been in that equation.
Misa’s eyes unfocus on the middle distance. Is she also recalling their first meeting? “You’re why I felt calm that first day actually.” She smiles at the shocked expression he doesn’t bother to hide. “The way you looked at me, I thought, okay, here’s someone else who knows what a load of bullshit this all is. I felt reassured.”
Chishiya is rendered speechless. He files through his memories but can’t locate the last time anyone felt reassured by him. Certainly not his parents and their bone-crushing expectations. Not his patients with their death-rattles banging in their chests and him powerless to cut through the elite’s red tape to deliver them aid.
But here sits this small, smudge of a woman, with her curtain of jet black hair and wardrobe like a shadow, telling him that she was reassured by him. Giving him her gratitude even after he let her down in their first game, following his lead in their second, falling asleep on his shoulder when she was hurt and afraid– she is still reassured by him. How could she be so careless?
“You should really be careful who you trust.” He thinks he might be almost cross with her though he’s not sure he can name why. He is the one planning to dupe her. Is he annoyed with himself?
She smiles, her teeth flashing. “Maybe you should be careful of who you let trust you.”
Misa gets up and pulls two books out of a desk drawer. She hands one to him, then scoots to the headboard with the other. She settles in to read without another word. Chishiya glances down at the book in his hand, not really reading the title. He thinks of getting up and leaving, to thwart her assumption that he’d stay, but he has a niggling suspicion that she’d know he was trying to be petty. No one has ever gotten under his skin like this. He moves to the floor, propping the book open on his knees and stays there until they leave to find Kuina.
***
Misa jogs over to Kuina when she spots her tall figure amidst the returning throng. Chishiya tips his head in greeting. Kuina fills them in on the game she played. The man from the five of Spades game, Arisu, was with her, being tested by Ann at Hatter’s behest. Kuina says he’s smart, a quick thinker. They make their way to the pool while Kuina gives her report.
They find an open lounger moments before Chishiya spies the newcomers reuniting near the pool and juts his chin in their direction. “Time for proper introductions.” Kuina nods and he slinks into the background, hesitating before tugging Misa with him by her sleeve. Misa looks at him questioningly but he only shakes his head.
Kuina calls out to Arisu and the woman and the three of them strike up a conversation. This is why he likes Kuina, she’s a people-person. Able to disarm with a friendliness that evades Chishiya.
They’re not close enough to hear their conversation, but when Aguni and his crew enter the fray, it’s clear threats are being made. Misa takes the tiniest step forward when the woman is accosted by a militant. Chishiya leans into her, “You’ll only make it worse.” Her first is clenched so tightly, he’s sure crescents will be left in her palms from her nails. It doesn’t matter, anyway, because Arisu is on his feet and a fight seems inevitable now.
Until Hatter strolls in, voice booming, calling for peace. Chishiya watches them with boredom, far more interested in the tension pulling Misa’s posture rigid beside him. The tenuous dance of control Hatter still spins around Aguni, and by proxy, the other militants, unfolds in front of the pool. Aguni leads his militants away and finally Misa relaxes marginally. Hatter exchanges a few last words with Arisu and the woman, then leaves as well. Arisu and his companion are quick to depart next. Kuina is still standing by the pool’s edge and Chishiya heads towards her, pausing to glance back when Misa doesn't follow him.
She’s staring after Arisu. “I’m going to go talk to them,” she says without looking at Chishiya.
The briefest flicker of annoyance flashes through him. “Don’t tell him the plan.”
“I won’t.” Then she’s walking away quickly, intent on catching up with Arisu.
Chishiya watches her retreating back, turning over his dissatisfaction with her choice to leave, before approaching Kuina. “So, what do you think about him?”
“I like him,” Kuina answers concisely.
“What happened?”
“The usual. Aguni threatened the woman– her name’s Usagi, by the way– then he threatened to break Arisu’s legs when he fought back. Is he really going to be okay if he agrees to your plan?”
Chishiya hums thoughtfully. “What did you like about him?”
“He seems brave, loyal. Nice.” Kuina shrugs. “What’s not to like? Maybe Misa will learn more. He seems like the type she’d be friends with.” She looks over his shoulder in the direction Misa disappeared after Arisu.
Misa’s type, hmm? That’s likely true. She would value bravery, loyalty, kindness. All the things Chishiya is not. If he wasn’t careful, was he about to lose his ally to a worthy opponent? Chishiya doesn’t like the idea of it at all.
“Whether he’s okay or not will depend on how well he can take care of himself. His cooperation is an essential part of the plan.”
~Misa~
Misa jogs inside, searching the milling Beach residents until she catches sight of Arisu. She calls out his name and he pauses to look back, brow furrowed when he doesn’t immediately see a familiar face in the crowd.
When she reaches him, the cloud of confusion falls away. “You,” he begins.
Misa nods. “From the five of spades game. I’m Misa. Kuina told me your name.”
“This is Usagi.” He gestures to the woman beside him and she smiles tightly at Misa.
“It’s nice to formally meet you both. I never got a chance to thank you. You saved our lives in the spades game. I won’t forget that.”
Arisu smiles kindly. “I wasn’t sure if people would work together fast enough. I’m glad we did.”
“I know you were evaluated for a spot as an executive of the Beach,” Misa cuts straight to the point. “Be careful. This place is…” Misa trails off, searching for the most apt descriptor.
“Dangerous,” Usagi finishes for her, their eyes locking.
“Very,” Misa confirms. “You don’t know until you’re here and by the time you’re here, it’s too late. I just wanted to warn you.”
“Kuina explained the militants.” Arisu's mouth tightens into a thin line and he glances at Usagi.
“Steer clear of Niragi. The one with the piercings. He’s the worst of the worst.” Misa pauses, then adds, “and don’t go anywhere alone.”
The pair nod to her with a grim sort of gratitude. “What floor are you on? We’ll walk with you to your room,” Arisu offers.
“That’s kind of you.” They chat as Misa guides them to her floor and she finds she genuinely enjoys their company. Both of their energies are a good match for her own. It’s calming, grounding being in their presence. Like how she feels around Chishiya.
She says good night with an offer to meet up with them for breakfast the following morning, which they accept. Misa drags the desk chair over to wedge against the door. It’s not enough to keep anyone from entering but hopefully it would be enough of an obstacle to slow them down and wake her up. With that, she collapses onto the mattress, then into sleep.
She wakes early the next morning, tucking the chair back under the desk. She opens her door to Chishiya whose hand is poised as if to knock. He instead redirects the gesture to a wave.
“What are you doing here?” Misa asks.
“I plan to recruit Arisu today.”
“I was just going to meet them for breakfast.”
“Good. I want to keep an eye on them. See what they make of the Beach.” He pulls a walkie talkie from his hoodie pocket, holding it out to Misa. “I’ll radio you when it’s time.”
Misa takes it with a raised eyebrow. “Am I supposed to have this?”
“Not really,” Chishiya grins. “So don’t get caught.”
He turns to leave, but Misa catches his arm. “Can I trust you, Chishiya?” A nugget of worry has been stirring in her gut since Arisu showed up at the Beach. Misa didn’t understand why they needed him at all. Not that she wanted to go waltzing into Hatter’s suite to collect the cards herself, but she found it odd that Chishiya hadn’t even suggested it. Surely the three of them were more than enough. Why did Chishiya want Arisu’s help so badly?
Chishiya glances from her hand on his arm back up to her. “I’ve been honest about my intentions, Misa.”
She stares into his eyes, rimmed by delicate lashes and a single offset mole, and decides that the only thing she can do is believe him.
***
Misa waves Usagi and Arisu over to her table when they enter the dining hall. “How did you sleep?”
“We’ve been camping outside, so this wasn’t so bad,” Arisu answers.
“The Beach does have its comforts, I guess.” Misa has to admit having a warm, dry bed to sleep in is a definite perk.
Usagi is studying her intently. “Did that happen at the Beach?” She asks quietly, her eyes coasting over the bruising on Misa’s cheek and throat.
“Niragi,” is all Misa says by way of reply. She thinks back to seeing him at the pool last night, preparing to hurt Arisu. Seems her stab wound hasn’t slowed him down at all. She wishes she’d aimed for his eye.
Usagi nods once at her and says no more. Misa feels a spark of camaraderie. Two women who saw no point in unnecessary words to illustrate unmistakable evil.
As they eat, Misa learns a little about these new additions. Arisu liked playing video games before. Usagi is an avid climber. “You’re incredible,” Misa praises. “I saw what you could do during the spades game.”
Usagi’s smile is tinged with sadness. “I climbed a lot with my dad.” Misa recognizes the loss there. A parental grief similar in shape to Misa’s own, but with a longing Misa would never be able to muster. She has no fond memories of her own father.
They chat for a while, until Arisu announces that he and Usagi want to explore the Beach a little, get the lay of the land. They bid each other farewell in the lobby and go their separate ways. Misa returns to her room, nothing to do but wait for Chishiya’s radio call.
It’s mid-afternoon when it finally comes. Chishiya asks her to meet him and Kuina outside along one of the back edges of the Beach. Misa picks her way through the interior until she finds an exit that will take her where she needs to go. She finds Chishiya and Kuina on a large veranda. A set of wide stone steps lead down to ground level.
“Kuina saw Arisu heading this way. It won’t be long until he discovers the ugly underbelly of the Beach.”
Misa is used to Chishiya’s cryptic words by now. “What do you mean?”
He points over the balcony ledge. Misa wanders over, standing on tiptoe to peer over the stone wall. A service door bangs open, two militants dragging someone who appears half-conscious across the concrete. They stop in front of a tarped-over dumpster, letting the person slump to the ground. One of the militants raises their rifle, and a single shot fires off. The other one removes the tarp and together, they heave the body atop the pile. Bile rises in Misa’s throat when she registers what she’s seeing. The mound of swimwear clad corpses heaped high in the dumpster.
“The Beach’s golden rule,” Chishiya quips at her elbow. She knows the fear and disgust is undisguised on her face when she turns to him. His expression doesn’t exactly soften, there’s nothing soft about Chishiya, but his eyes lose a bit of their flat edge. “Don’t worry, you won’t be caught as a traitor. Let’s go.”
Misa and Kuina follow him down the steps. As predicted, Arisu is there at the dumpster, gagging as he throws the tarp back over the bodies.
“That is the true nature of this utopia. This is part of the Beach’s rules. Death to the traitors.”
Misa hates how cavalier Chishiya sounds. Hates how close they are to a festering mass grave. “Let’s go somewhere else and talk.” She doesn’t even wait to see if they agree before striding away. That’s the thing about Chishiya though, he toys and taunts, but it’s not really an absolute power that he’s after. He’s not upset with Misa for interrupting him or taking charge. To him, these are all just moves on a gameboard. And being upset over a game is beneath him.
They arrive to a rooftop drenched in sunlight. Misa blinks through narrowed eyes as she adjusts to the incandescent sheen bouncing off the painted roof. Even Chishiya scrunches an eye at the dazzling glare, and for a moment, he's declawed. As harmless as a cat napping in the sunshine.
Chishiya speaks first. “Arisu. You and Usagi seem to have collected a vast amount of information. What are you both planning?”
Arisu looks uncertainly between the three people before him. “Nothing much.”
“I’ll cut to the chase. How will you live in this world that’s full of despair?” Misa’s gaze cuts sharply to Chishiya at his words. Laying it on thick, she thinks.
“How?” Arisu no longer sounds uncertain. There’s a gloss of melancholy varnishing his words. “I just want to know the answers to my questions. The ones behind this crazy game. And who killed Karube and Chota.” Misa’s heart softens at the names of friends he must've lost in games. “I thought I’d be able to survive and return to the original world with everyone. If that’s not possible, I want Usagi to return, at the very least. This is the only reason why I’m still alive.” Now, her heart melts. A beautiful aim, anchored in a resolution to fight for those you love. What would it be like, to have that kind of purpose directed towards her?
Chishiya laughs, hanging his head. “What a tearjerker. Your dream…” He walks a few paces away to the edge of the roof. “It’s cool but it's not practical at all.”
Misa winces, pondering Chishiya’s profile. Unsurprising, that the nihilist would see little value in things like love and hope. He’d told her before, with the kids, just what he thought of sentimental premises like that.
Then Kuina also laughs and steps forward as well, as if this is a choreographed moment. And, it occurs to Misa, maybe it is. Kuina and Chishiya were allied before Misa ever entered the picture. They have a working rapport she’s not included in. What other moves and measures might they be taking without her awareness? Kuina folds her arms across her chest. “You’ll have to win all the games and become the next number one, but that’s impossible.”
Arisu shakes his head. “It has nothing to do with you guys.”
Chishiya glances at her and Kuina. “We think you have potential.”
“What?” Arisu’s skepticism arches his brow.
“That’s why we came to meet you,” Chishiya clarifies.
“What do you mean?”
“What if I said there’s a way to change the status quo all at once?”
Arisu looks at Chishiya with obvious interest, his eyes flicking over to Misa. Chishiya tracks the look and gives Misa a subtle nod.
Misa feels her strings being pulled but is unable, or unwilling, to cut herself off from the marionette master. Chishiya’s plan might confuse her, but she understands that Arisu is an important piece of it to him. “We think we can help each other. So that we all get out of here alive,” she urges Arisu.
Chishiya picks up the thread she left to continue weaving. “Hatter is trying to keep the militants in check. But it's only a matter of time before they retaliate. If that happens, this place will be controlled by the militants who don't know how to use their brains. Then there'd be no point staying here.”
“What are you planning?” Misa can tell that while Arisu may also be highly intelligent, he does not use it like a noose that he can tighten for control, not like Chishiya. His interest in Chishiya’s proposition is worn on his sleeve. His expression is cautious, but open. There would be no subterfuge from him.
Chishiya bares his characteristic furtive grin. “I’m planning to steal all the playing cards and leave the Beach.”
Arisu stares at him open-mouthed. “Is he serious?” He asks Misa. “Is it possible?”
Misa shrugs. “Chishiya says so and I believe him. But we need to work together.”
Arisu squints into the sunlight. “I need to talk to Usagi.”
“Of course,” Chishiya affirms. “Come find us when you’re ready.”
Arisu nods, glancing back once as he leaves them behind on the roof.
Chishiya sighs. “I think that went well.”
“You think he’ll agree?” Kuina asks.
“Yes,” Misa answers without a trace of doubt. “He doesn’t want to act without Usagi’s approval, but the decision is already made. He wants a way out of here for her and we’ve just handed him one.”
Kuina scuffs a flip-flop against the ground. “Great. Well, I need a nap. I’ll see you two later.” She shuffles out of sight, stifling a yawn. It’s a good idea to catch what sleep they can before they put their plan into action and untold chaos unfolds, but Misa stays behind with Chishiya.
Gazing out over the horizon he asks Misa, “What do you like about Arisu?”
Misa contemplates for a moment. “He’s got a good heart.”
Chishiya casts a side-long glance at her, the gesture further highlighting his cat-like demeanor. “What about me?”
Misa’s perplexed. “What about you? Do I think you have a good heart? I don’t know, Chishiya. It’s an abstruse thing, concealed under layers of artifice. I’m never sure what it is you’re really feeling.”
“I meant, what do you like about me?”
He asks so cheerfully Misa wonders if he even wants an honest answer or if he’s somehow trying to goad her. “Who says I like you at all?”
Chishiya’s brows tick upwards, but he makes no reply, as if he refuses to indulge such an obvious obfuscation of the truth. What did Misa like about him? She liked that Chishiya wasn’t the snake in the grass. He was the snake that climbed down from the tree to wrap around your neck and it was your own fault if you didn't see it coming before he squeezed. She likes that he doesn’t try to hide what he is, that there may be things about him that were monstrous, yet he wasn’t a monster. The idea of comparing him to Niragi repulses her, but she can’t deny the parallels. Two men, highly skilled at playing the games, ranked amongst the top members of the Beach but utterly divergent in what they chose to do with that authority.
Misa knew Chishiya had the potential to be a monster too, if he let go, if the frayed rope attaching him to his humanity snapped for good. But she’s seen the places where it is stubbornly hanging on. Maybe he cared about her for his own ends… maybe he just cared. A fragile, damaged thing Misa saw reflected in herself. How many times had she been on the verge of cursing the whole world, of washing her hands of empathy? Every time, some small kindness had brought her back to herself. A hot bowl of soup freely given here, a dry room to stay in when she couldn’t possibly afford the deposit there. Misa had fought tooth and nail to cling to her conviction to return those random acts of compassion in her own life. Some days, it was the only thing that got her out of bed.
“I like,” Misa says slowly. “That when you look at me, it’s like you really see me.” She expected Chishiya would argue that when he looks at her, he sees only a component he can utilize in his designs, but it’s true. His cool gaze fixes on her and she feels seen, she feels whole. The light and dark parts of her regarded with equal measure. “And you, Chishiya? Have you thought about what you like about me?”
He squints in the sunlight. “I like that when you look at me…” His languorous perusal slips over her features. “You don’t look away.”
Dusk descends across the Tokyo skyline. Below, the Beach is in a particularly jovial uproar as Hatter perches inside a convertible with the top down, off to play his game. They peer out over this scene in companionable silence.
