Yes I might be a grown up (22) with a big-girl job (teacher) at an adult phase of my life (getting married) but GODDAMIT I’m refreshing AO3 every few hours for updates on my CR’s.
I keep hearing “grace wears science pun shirts to break the ice with his students” “aww grace wears those shirts to make science more interesting to kids”. Bullshit dude, in all of the classroom scenes he’s wearing business casual. His dumbass science shirts are for the love of the game and nothing else
summary: you wake in an unfamiliar place with no memory of who you are or how you got there, only to discover the only other person aboard is a man. a man who you don't know. stranded in deep space with a stranger, you know enough about human nature to understand the odds are not in your favour.
warnings: insinuations of kidnapping and sexual violence (nothing happens i promise), intimidation, panick attacks, stressed ryland and also reader, angst
a/n: round two !! lets go !!
series masterlist
The first meeting with Eva Stratt might have looked unusual to an outsider, but to you, it was almost perfect in its construction.
You knew something was off before you even turned onto your street. The term instinct felt wrong to use; it was far too messy and emotional. There was a black SUV parked three houses down from yours, engine still idling. It was too clean for the area and too still for a delivery. The windows were tinted, blocking your view of the driver. There was no phone glow, no light of a cigarette.
It was clearly waiting for something.
You slowed, but didn’t stop. It was safer to act casual. Your eyes flicked to your mirrors as you rolled past it, not turning your head. There was no reaction from the inside.
You pulled up a few doors down from your house, not yet switching the engine off. Your hands stayed on the wheel, fingers loose but ready. Your foot hovered on the clutch. If you needed to move, you could do so in seconds.
The door of the SUV opened, and you watched it from your rearview. The figure stepped out, unhurried.
She wore a black trench coat, sharp lines, swallowing her frame but not hiding it. No time was wasted as she closed the door behind her, no glancing around to check her surroundings.
You noted she wasn’t worried.
She crossed the pavement toward you as you tracked her approach, already building a profile in real time.
Not law enforcement (no visible identifiers, no posture of authority).
Not private sector (too understated).
Government. It had to be. But what one, you weren’t sure.
You let her reach the car before acknowledging her, letting her tap lightly on the window. You rolled it down only a fraction, just enough to see her clearly. She was composed up close, with her face giving nothing freely. Her eyes were sharp, much like yours probably were in return.
She stated your name with a tone that made it sound like a question, though it was more of a statement. Her accent was European, German from the sounds of it. You tilted your head as you continued to watch her.
“You seem to already know,” you said evenly. “If you’re waiting outside my house.”
You let your gaze drag over the car behind her deliberately, then the road.
“So,” you added as your eyes returned to hers, “what do you want?”
“Step out of the car, please,” she said. “There are some things I need to discuss with you.”
You didn’t hesitate in your response.
“No.”
Your hand shifted on the gearstick as you went to reverse, already disliking the situation. That was until you saw the headlights appear. Another SUV slid into place behind you, effectively blocking you in.
You frowned as you turned your head back to her, meeting her gaze again, irritated now.
“I know this area better than any of you do,” you told her, voice calm. “If you make me run, I promise you, you will not be seeing me again.”
You meant it. You knew the alleys and side streets, knew which back gardens you could hop over. Your line of work paid you to think ahead, and you knew how easily trouble could follow you home if you didn’t have an escape route.
“I don’t doubt that,” she replied.
That was the first moment you adjusted her profile. She lifted a hand, and the SUV behind you responded instantly. The lights turned off, as well as the engine. Whomever this woman was, it was clear she had control.
You leaned back slightly. Power, sadly, did not impress you.
“If you’re trying to intimidate me,” you sighed, “it’s not working.”
“I am trying to show you the urgency of the situation.”
You let out a disbelieving laugh.
“This looks like a power display,” you corrected. “One I do not appreciate.”
She seemed to consider your words, raising her hand once more.
The car behind you started to reverse obediently, giving you some space. You watched it go. Not because you didn’t trust her, but because you wanted to see how far her control extended.
Far enough, you decided.
You looked back at her, the window still only slightly open, maintaining the barrier.
“My name is Eva Stratt,” she said, “and I am with the Petrova Task Force.”
You offered her no reaction as your mind started up again.
You’d heard whispers about it. Not through official channels, and none of them confirmed. But from what you’d heard, you deduced that it was urgent, and when something is urgent, it usually stands above the standard jurisdiction.
You kept silent as you allowed her to continue.
“I was impressed by your work on the counter-terrorism case a few years ago,” she went on. “Particularly your assessment of the secondary operative.”
“It was the only logical explanation,” you told her simply.
It was the case that launched your career. What began as a presumed coordinated bombing in the city centre quickly escalated into a nationwide threat when you identified the operation as a staged distraction. While the rest of the team moved to intercept the primary cell, you flagged a secondary operative.
He was stopped mid-transfer with materials that would have caused far greater damage elsewhere, and from that point on, people stopped asking if you were right. Instead, they asked how soon you could be there.
“You’re familiar with high-pressure decision environments.”
You gave a quiet huff.
“You could say that.”
Her hands shifted in her pockets, though there was no visible weapon. Her breathing was steady, and she was completely at ease.
“You have consistently demonstrated an ability to identify behavioural divergence under stress,” she continued. “You see what people are going to do before they have the chance to do it.”
It wasn’t a question, but you nodded once at her assessment. She was clearly someone of high-level access with an unofficial approach. More than that, she came to you personally. All of which meant that this mattered, that she didn’t trust intermediaries, and above all else, she expected results.
“What do you want with me then?”
You both stared at each other steadily, both measuring the other.
“I will be back here tomorrow morning,” she said instead, not giving a straight answer. “Five a.m.”
You were about to tell her that wouldn’t be possible—that you had somewhere to be, a job that paid and, more importantly, one that actually mattered. The kind of work that kept cities intact. She obviously knew that.
You shifted slightly in your seat, studying her again, testing the edges of what she was.
“Is Berlin quiet this time of year?” you asked bluntly, but your hand tightened just slightly on the wheel. One wrong answer and you were gone.
“Only if you know where not to look.”
You exhaled quietly through your nose.
Legitimate. Unfortunately.
“When did you contact the Home Office?” you asked, skipping the performance entirely.
“An hour ago.”
You nodded again. You wouldn’t be expected in tomorrow. Not by anyone who still thought they had a say in it.
“How bad is it?”
You watched her carefully, tracking the stillness, the precision of it. She was choosing her response.
“I’ll be here at five,” she said. “We can talk then.”
A deferral, it is then.
She turned, already stepping back, conversation dismissed as efficiently as it had begun.
“Get some rest.” She told you, but it sounded like an instruction rather than a pleasantry.
You watched her retreat, the distance between you closing on her terms, not yours. Every step measured, every movement controlled, until she slipped back into the quiet anonymity she’d stepped out of.
You sat there for a moment, engine still running, the low hum filling the silence she left behind. Your mind moved quickly, slotting pieces into place whether you wanted it to or not.
You leaned back, gaze fixed ahead. You weren’t sure what to make of it yet. Only that whatever was coming next, you weren’t going to be allowed to walk away from it.
The return to consciousness was brutal. It came in fractured pieces, each one unpleasant enough to be noticed before the next arrived.
The light came first; it was too bright as it pressed against your closed eyelids, causing them to ache before they even opened. Then there was the noise, the constant buzz that originated from an unknown source.
The sensation of your limbs was heavy; it felt as though they were packed with wet sand as you struggled to shift your joints. Your mouth was stale, and your tongue felt too large; your throat was lined with something rough and sour. A vicious flu, perhaps. A fever without the heat.
You tried to swallow and regretted it immediately. Your eyes fluttered open.
White light flooded in so sharply that you winced and shut them again on instinct. You tried again, this time the brightness softened enough to tolerate. Shapes began to form in the blur above you, none of them offering any comfort. There were only smooth surfaces. No curtains or bedside table. This was not your room, and this was not your house.
Your pulse kicked hard enough for you to feel it in your throat.
You forced your eyes wider, fighting through the sting. There was movement in the far corner. A figure. Someone hunched over something, shoulders rounded in concentration. You couldn’t make out details yet, only the outline of a person and the motion of an arm moving across a surface.
Writing? Drawing?
Your attempt to focus cost you. A groan slipped out before you could stop it. Even that small sound scraped your throat like glass. You shifted, trying to gather your limbs beneath you, and discovered with immediate irritation that they were barely interested in cooperating.
The figure’s head snapped up.
“Oh, thank god,” a voice said at once. Warm, breathless with relief. “You’re awake.”
Every muscle in your body went cold. Male voice. Unknown room. Unknown location. Physical impairment.
This was the worst-case scenario.
Your mind, sluggish one second before, accelerated violently. You moved without a strategy, powered entirely by alarm. You scrambled backwards off the raised platform beneath you. Your limbs tangled beneath you. The floor struck against your hip as you glanced down at the pain.
What the hell were you wearing?
You looked in disbelief. The clothing on your body was clinical. Functional, which made it more unsettling, with strange attachments jutting out. No bra, no proper layers.
Had he dressed you in this?
Your thoughts fractured into rapid, brutal possibilities. Drugging. Abduction. Medical captivity. Experimentation. Institutional confinement. Sexual violence.
Your gaze snapped around the room.
Metal walls. Artificial lighting. No windows. No signs of outside life. No natural sound. No traffic. No footsteps. No distant voices. Nothing human beyond the man approaching you.
There were corridors leading away into shadowed openings. This was a contained environment with no witnesses, no obvious escape routes.
The man was still coming toward you, hands raised in a gesture that might have been placating if the circumstances were not catastrophic.
“Hey—it’s alright, I—”
“S—stop!”
The word came out shredded and weak. You shoved one trembling hand up between you like a barrier and fixed him with the sharpest glare your half-functioning body could produce. You could only hope your eyes were clearer than the rest of you.
To his credit, he stopped immediately. Allowing you to get a proper look at him.
Male. Taller than you. Blonde hair in complete disarray, brushing too long around his face as though no one had cut it in months. Glasses slightly crooked. Blue eyes. Tired eyes.
He had no visible weapon, and there were no visible restraints on you. None on him either. It was a small comfort.
He was breathing a little fast, and his posture was slightly agitated. His shoulders were not squared fully, not looming over you in overt aggression. It was not the stance of someone who was enjoying your fear.
That meant little to you. Plenty of dangerous men never looked dangerous; some did not even know they were.
You backed farther across the floor anyway, palms slipping slightly. Your coordination was appalling, and your arm shook where you held it out. Adrenaline demanded action your body could not provide.
He noticed, and his expression tightened. Concern, perhaps. Or concern that the subject was becoming difficult.
You could become far worse if needed.
“Careful,” he said quickly. “I’m not going to—”
“Who—”
Your voice broke apart in your throat. You coughed violently, the motion wrenching through your chest. Tears sprang uselessly to your eyes.
“Who are—”
Another cough.
Damn it.
He made an involuntary movement forward, then stopped himself when your raised hand jerked higher. He looked like he wanted to help, but you had no intention of testing whether that impulse was genuine. You did not know how long he would keep behaving like a safe man if challenged.
“If you’re asking who I am,” he said, softer now, “I was sort of hoping you’d have an answer.”
A nervous laugh escaped him at the end, as if he knew how ridiculous that sounded. Slowly, he lowered himself to the floor opposite you. He moved carefully, deliberately visible in every motion, like someone approaching a frightened animal or trying not to startle a child. The observation irritated you more than it reassured you. Gentle could be a strategy too.
Why the hell would you know who he was?
Whatever crossed your face must have been obvious. He nodded once and exhaled through his nose.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “No. It was a long shot anyway.”
He looked away for a second as though disappointed in himself for asking. Something about the expression struck you; it didn’t seem performed.
“I’m Grace,” he added, glancing back. “Ryland Grace.”
Somewhere beneath the panic, beneath the calculations and defensive planning, something in you eased. Barely enough to measure, but enough to notice.
Grace...
The name settled strangely in your chest; you chalked its familiarity up to coincidence. You hated that your shoulders still loosened even slightly. He saw it and seemed to brighten by a fraction.
“Do you know your name?”
What a dumb question, of course you did. You opened your mouth to respond.
Your name...
You should know your own name. It should be the easiest fact available to you, the central piece around which every other detail arranged itself, but there was only blankness.
Your breathing quickened again. No name. No memory of how you got here. A man in a sealed metal room is speaking to you.
Your mind lurched toward panic’s edge, but something caught, something small.
Dark street, a car with the engine running. A woman in a black coat standing outside your window. Sharp eyes with an accent. Dawn promised at five a.m. The memory was thin and dreamlike, edges dissolving as you reached for it, but it carried one clear thing within it.
You swallowed carefully, wincing through the dryness, and forced the syllables out slowly enough not to trigger another coughing fit. You told him your name.
Grace’s whole face changed, something mirroring relief.
“Good,” he said, a small laugh escaping him. “If it makes you feel better, you’re already doing way better than me when I woke up.”
Despite yourself, despite every warning still firing in the back of your skull, the corner of your fear loosened.
The man—Grace—seemed to take that tiny shift as encouragement. He let out a breath as he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck before words began tumbling out of him at speed.
“I mean, it's a great start, honestly—you didn’t even have to meet the arm, so that’s something. Well—you did meet the arm, technically, but you were out of it for a few more hours than I was, so maybe you don’t remember that part? Which, lucky you.”
You stared at him. He mistook your silence for interest and kept going.
“I didn’t know if I should move you,” he admitted quickly. “That seemed weird, right? You don’t move unconscious people unless there’s an emergency or, I don’t know, a fire? But then I found what I think are your clothes, so if you wanted to change when you’re feeling less…” He gestured vaguely at the suit still hanging off your body, “uncomfortable, you can. I did think about switching it out for you, but then I realised that was incredibly forward, because that would be—”
“You what?”
He was going to undress you?!
“No!” he blurted at once, eyes widening behind his glasses. “No, no, no. Not like that!”
He groaned at himself, visibly horrified by his own phrasing.
“I just meant—you’re the only other person here and I thought maybe if you woke up in your own clothes you’d be less freaked out or something!”
You only gawked at him.
So it really was just the two of you. Two strangers here, completely alone in whatever this place was. And the stranger sitting opposite you had, by his own confession, considered undressing you while you were unconscious.
Absolutely not.
Your body moved before your reasoning had fully finished. You shoved yourself upright, using the wall for leverage, then lunged in the direction of the nearest opening. Your legs betrayed you immediately. One foot slipped out beneath you, pain burst hot from your ankle, but you kept moving. You had to get away.
“Hey—no, wait!” he scrambled to his feet behind you. “That’s not what I meant! It was weird the second I said it, I know that now!”
You ignored him entirely. There was a ladder ahead, a vertical escape was still an escape.
You reached it clumsily, fingers fumbling for the first rung before they finally caught. Your arms trembled under your own weight as you hauled yourself upward. Every movement felt delayed, but adrenaline was beginning to do what logic could not.
Below you, Grace hovered near the base of the ladder in visible distress before he began to follow.
“Careful!” he called up. “I’m serious! I nearly fell like three times earlier!”
You climbed faster, and the next level greeted you with more metal. More walls. More machinery embedded into them. Strange instruments that you couldn’t stop to check, but which your eyes catalogued automatically: technical and specialised. There was nothing soft here. Nothing to suggest ordinary life had ever existed within these walls.
Then—at the far end of the corridor—glass.
Oh, thank God.
You lurched toward it, half-running, half-catching yourself against the walls as your coordination lagged. Behind you, you could hear him following, his feet hitting the floor in uneven beats.
You reached the circular pane at the end of the corridor and almost slammed bodily into it. Both hands shot out to catch the frame as you leaned forward, breathless, desperate for orientation. Outside was darkness.
Night, then. Not ideal, but workable. If there was ground below, if there was a city, if there was anything recognisable, you could begin again from there. Find the police. Find answers.
You looked down, only there was no street.
There was nothing.
In fact, there was no earth at all.
There was only black, endless black. And stars, so many stars, in the hundreds. They shone against the void, suspended in every direction, not above you but all around, and you were inside of it.
No.
No, no, no.
You staggered backwards from the glass, but your legs had already given up. They folded beneath you, and you hit the floor hard, palms skidding on metal. The corridor tilted nauseatingly around you.
You were in space.
You were in fucking space.
You were on a ship in space with a man you did not know.
Grace stopped a few feet away, all momentum leaving him as he took in your expression.
“Hey,” he said, softer now. “I’m sorry, it’s gonna be—”
He stopped. There was no ending to that sentence he could possibly offer.
Your breathing turned shallow. Air in, no relief. Air out, no control. Your chest tightened with each attempt to pull more in. He looked like he wanted to help and hated that he didn’t know how.
“Where am I?” you managed, the words scraping out of a throat still ruined by whatever had been done to you.
He grimaced.
“Uh. Yes. Well.” He mumbled. “About that.”
You looked up at him, and whatever he saw on your face made his own expression soften instantly. He crouched slowly, making sure you could see every movement, then reached one hand toward your arm and paused long enough for you to object. His fingers closed gently around your forearm in the lightest squeeze imaginable.
“I’ll be right back, okay?” he said quietly. “You gonna be okay here?”
Like hell you are.
You only stared at him. He nodded as though you’d answered something coherent. He stood and retreated, backing away before turning toward the ladder and disappearing down it.
The moment he was gone, the full scale of it hit you.
You were in space. It was not some sick metaphor or dissociative nightmare. The stars had depth as they stared back at you through the small opening. They had motion and an impossible distance.
This was a fucking spacecraft.
Your brain, traitorous but surprisingly efficient, supplied data without any invitation. Women are disproportionately harmed by men they know. Sexual violence is most commonly committed by known perpetrators, not strangers. Isolation increases vulnerability. Lack of witnesses reduces intervention likelihood. Physical impairment compounds risk.
You went still.
Why did you know that?
The statistics had arrived with the certainty of professional memory. This was working knowledge.
Your pulse thudded harder as your previous dream returned in flashes. The woman, that black SUV. She had come for you, but why?
What had you done for a living that someone like that came to your home personally? Something government-adjacent? Definitely something specialised enough that your brain still held data under sedation and terror. You seemed rational and did not strike yourself as someone who would casually volunteer to be fired into the vacuum of space.
What had made you? Or better yet, who?
Your spiral was interrupted by the sound of footsteps returning along the corridor. You straightened immediately, fingers tightening against your knees. Grace reappeared carrying a notepad and pen clutched to his chest. He slowed when he saw your posture.
“Alright,” he said softly, as though beginning again might somehow reset the last ten minutes.
He lowered himself to the floor beside you, folding into a cross-legged seat a few feet away. Close enough to talk, far enough that you could still breathe. The notepad settled across his lap as he glanced at you.
You had drawn your knees up tight, arms wrapped loosely around them. A protective, self-soothing posture that did little to comfort you. You did not fully turn toward him, only watched from the corner of your eye, gaze sharp. He noticed that too. He seemed to notice everything.
“Is there anything you remember before this?” he asked. “Anything. Literally anything would be useful right now.”
Your immediate instinct was frustration. If there had been anything clear in your head, you would have seized it already. Unfortunately, there was only static, a gaping hole where your life should have been. Still, you searched, and nothing coherent surfaced. You began to shake your head.
He nodded slowly, as if that answer was expected. You shifted, clearing your throat.
“There—”
You stopped to cough again, eyes watering with the effort.
God, this was becoming humiliating.
His head lifted immediately.
“Do you need water?”
At least they had that. Good to know.
You shook your head, wanting the words out before they vanished again.
“There—there was a woman,” you managed.
He went still, full attention fixed on you with such intensity that, under different circumstances, it might have been unnerving.
“She—” You frowned hard, annoyed at yourself. “She came to my house.”
The image was there and not there; every time you reached for detail, it blurred like smoke. You clenched your jaw.
“Hey, it’s alright,” he said gently. “That was good. That’s more than I had for a while.”
You looked at him as he gave a small, self-conscious shrug.
“I only have fragments too. Stuff pops in and out. Super unhelpful timing.”
You nodded once, though the movement felt hollow. Lost did not begin to cover it. He glanced down at the notepad, then back to you.
“I’m gonna tell you what I’ve figured out so far,” he said. “Is that okay? We can wait, if you need to, but I feel like maybe context would be less… psychologically devastating than no context?”
“Tell me.”
You needed facts, anything with edges. He nodded quickly.
“Good. Okay. Just—just tell me if you want to stop.”
You studied him while he uncapped the pen. He still seemed harmless in all the obvious ways. He kept checking your face before moving or speaking, as though waiting for permission, but that did not equal trust.
Up close, he was softer than he first appeared. The panic and poor lighting had sharpened him into something more severe before, but here, sitting cross-legged beside you, the edges gave way.
His hair fell in unruly waves around his temples. His glasses slipped slightly down the bridge of his nose whenever he looked down. There was tiredness in the lines around his eyes, yes, but kindness too—something open and guileless that sat strangely at odds with your circumstances. Even the way he held himself felt unthreatening. His hands, when they moved, were careful hands. Clever hands. Built more for books and delicate instruments than harm.
Which, annoyingly, meant nothing.
It would be idiotic to trust a man you had known for less than an hour in a sealed vessel beyond the atmosphere. But it was becoming increasingly likely that whatever had happened to you had also happened to him. And if the choice was between an uncertain ally and absolute isolation, the maths was unpleasantly simple.
Grace’s posture straightened, and he drew a small circle near the top of the page.
“Okay,” he said, pointing at it. “This is our sun—or was our sun. You know what I mean.”
He added a smaller dot next to it, muttering to himself.
“Earth—there you are—everybody’s there, lovely neighbourhood.”
He glanced up to make sure you were following, then drew an arrow far off to the side of the page. So far it nearly touched the margin. At the end of it he sketched another star.
“We,” he said, tapping the distant point, “are apparently…over here.”
You stared at the page, then back at the page.
“That is not to scale,” he added quickly. “If that helps.”
It didn’t. You weren't actually sure what would help at this point.
“I asked the computer to contact Earth..." he said, almost apologetically, almost as if he didn't want to tell you the next detail. You looked at him to continue; it had to be done sooner or later. "It told me the transmission time is... eleven years, ten months, fourteen days and some extra hours.”
He wrote down the number on a small arrow connecting the two illustrations as your stomach dropped all over again. He must have seen it happen, because his voice gentled further.
“Hey, hey—it’s okay. We’re okay.”
You were most certainly not okay.
How long had you been travelling? How many years had slipped past while you lay unconscious in a machine? You didn’t know if you’d left behind parents, siblings, a partner—people whose faces should have come to you instantly and gave you nothing instead.
They might have mourned you. They might have moved on. They might not remember you at all. Your vision blurred for a moment, but you blinked it clear. You did not have the luxury of breaking now.
Grace must have seen something shift in your face, because his voice softened immediately.
“Hey,” he said gently, lowering the notepad into his lap. “We can stop. Seriously. We do not have to do all of this right now.”
He capped the pen and rested it across the paper, hands going still for the first time since he’d sat down. When he looked back at you, there was nothing urgent in his expression now, only patience.
"We can pretend none of this exists for five minutes if that helps.”
You shook your head before he had even finished speaking.
No.
You had already lost too much time to unconsciousness, to blankness, to a life that had apparently continued without your consent. You did not know how long you had been here, how much had already been taken from you, or how much remained to be taken still. For all you knew, time had become the most expensive thing you owned.
And if you were being honest, there was something else beneath the urgency. You wished you could help him more.
It was painfully clear that you possessed no hidden expertise in engineering or interstellar travel. Otherwise, you would have mentioned right about now. The diagram he drew was easy to understand but highly juvenile. Yet he still sat beside you, translating into layman's terms.
A burden shared is a burden halved, that's what they say.
You still did not trust him; you would have been reckless to. But there was a pull there all the same. He had woken here alone. You could only imagine the terror of that first moment with no other voice to answer your own. No witness to your fear. No one to tell you that you were still real.
“No,” you said, shaking your head again. “I want to know more, please.”
The please slipped out softer than intended. Something in his face eased.
“Alright,” he said just as gently.
He picked the pen back up, turned the notepad toward you once more, and continued. He hovered for a second before he committed to the page, writing carefully in block letters:
TAU CETI
He underlined it once. Then, just to the side:
11.9 ly
“This,” he said, tapping the name lightly with the end of his pen, “is where we are. The Tau Ceti system. Or—around it, I guess.”
You found yourself leaning in despite everything, drawn toward the page. The movement brought you closer to him than before, shoulders nearly brushing as he instinctively angled. He smiled at that, encouraging.
“What’s ly?” you asked quietly. The question felt small in your mouth. Childlike, almost.
He exhaled, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in something that wasn’t humour.
“Light-years.”
You stilled. Guess there was no beating around that one.
“Yeah,” he added under his breath, nodding to himself. “Yeah, I know.”
The number sat there on the page between you. Distance you could not comprehend, only feel.
“We were both in some kind of medically induced coma,” he continued. “There were others here, but…”
He trailed off briefly, and you understood enough from his expression not to ask. That would have to be a conversation for later. One thing at a time.
“We seem to be here for a reason,” he said instead. “I don’t know the reason yet. But this place has labs—equipment. Which means mission, an important mission.”
A mission?
“I know I’m from San Francisco,” he went on. “Or I lived there. That came back, and I know I’m a biologist.”
A biologist. Useful, certainly. But not exactly the first profession you’d choose when assembling a team for deep space survival.
“I know what a lot of the machines in the lab do,” he continued. “Some of the equipment makes sense the second I look at it. But the controls in the control room? Not so much. I was sort of hoping you’d be the one who knew those.”
He offered you a hopeful little smile, but you couldn’t return it even if you wanted to. You, unfortunately, possessed no hidden experience in astroengineering, spacecraft systems, or surviving several light-years from home.
The thought kept spinning in your head, about what sort of game was actually at play here. A biologist in space could make sense at a push, but you were no biologist. You were not any kind of scientist as far as you knew. If this vessel required expertise, then you were quite possibly the least useful person they could have launched into the void.
Why send you?
Were you cargo? Someone’s assistant? Some psychological variable? Why did your brain know crime statistics but not orbital mechanics?
The room seemed to tilt by a degree, and the pen stopped.
“Hey, hey—” The reassurance rang hollow even to him, you could hear it. “Maybe this was too much right now,” he shook his head. “God—of course it was too much.”
He pushed himself to his feet in one awkward movement.
“Um—I’m gonna get you something to drink, alright?" he nods to you. "I should've done that before we started all this.”
You looked up at him blankly.
“You drink tea, right? Or water? There’s coffee too, which is nice. No clue as to why, though. I think there also might be vodka?”
Hey, at least you had a beverage selection.
“Tea is fine,” you said quietly. You hesitated, then added, “Thank you… Grace.”
The name felt light on your tonuge and something changed in his face. A hint of surprise, or perhaps something warmer and more private that he seemed determined not to examine too closely. He gave a short nod, pushing whatever had just surfaced back down.
“Y—yeah. Okay. I'll—uh—I'll be right back.”
He turned and disappeared back down the corridor into the belly of the ship as silence settled in his place.
Your eyes drifted to the notepad he had left on the floor. You could hardly call yourself nosey right now; you wanted to see what else he had been working on. You reached for the pages with shaky fingers as you heard him wander further into the ship.
The first pages were dense with equations, symbols and strings of notation that meant absolutely nothing to you. Arrows connected variables to words like biomass and atmospheric loss. One margin simply read: WHY DO I KNOW THIS? underlined three times.
Further in, the notes became less coherent.
Ask computer better questions.
Stop asking vague questions.
Check food situation
Are we heroes??
You turned another page. There was a rough sketch of the ship with tiny stick figures labelled ME and ???
Well, at least he could label the diagram properly now he had your name.
Another page held an extremely dramatic drawing of the robotic arm with angry eyebrows and the caption: DO NOT TRUST ROBOT HAND. Beneath it, in smaller writing: saved my life though, complicated relationship.
You couldn't help the small chuckle that escaped. The writing looked oddly familiar as you traced the scratching on the page; you were almost able to feel the panic through the little scribbles. You stared at them for a long moment, then exhaled despite yourself.
For the time being, the stranger was playing nice. That did not mean he always would. Isolation changed people. Prolonged confinement changed them faster, and you had no clue what he was capable of.
You promised yourself that if this turned ugly, you would choose your own survival first.
If all else failed, you would be the one coming out alive of this hellscape.
a/n: ok now i feel like i am done with the two intro chapters. i wanted to get these two out of the way so we can get more into the fun stuff !! yes i have plenty more planned for this, and from my ideas so far, there will be plenty of angst to come as i am a sucker for hurt comfort.
the next part will by ryland's pov so hopefully some questions will start to be answered (but maybe not for everyone ;)))) )
i lied, put your clothes back on, we’re actually going to talk about how brennan and hodgins are best friends and how they’re one of the most underrated pairings in the show despite being buried alive together, and hodgins being brennan’s counterpart in every au the show has done and them knowing each other from the main cast the longest and enjoying little pieces of each other that the others think are odd
I made a new oc but I am missing a name so I am consulting the only expert I know that can give me what I want: baby name sites ran by white american moms.
janainaart
theartofmadeline
baratheonpilled
ellievsbear
2087
