the impossibility of it drives another sob from him, but the creeping doubt of hallucination doesn't find him. somehow, some way, he's sure this is real. there's no trippy, monster induced vignette on his peripherals, no heat-stench of blood, no visions of swirling light.
just a sterile, cluttered white room, a man with star-blessed hair, and simon's heavy, aching body.
he must fall asleep again, because he blinks and—
"♬.ᐟ" a rock sings. "♬.ᐟ♬.ᐟ"
"maybe i am hallucinating," simon grumbles. singing rocks? singing, moving rocks? no, this was too much. it had to be real. how and why would the pinhole god show him singing, moving rocks.
it keeps chirping and tapping until the star-blessed man from before skids in, catching himself on the wall and staring wide-eyed at simon. "hi!"
"hi," simon croaks. he feels wrung out.
the hail mary, a starship. which implies stars. stars, which shouldn't exist, but simon doesn't feel like he's hallucinating. which means 1, he's died and this is some fucked up death throe dream, 2, he is hallucinating but can't tell, 3, this guy and the singing rock are fucking delusional freaks, or 4, this is real and there are somehow stars and humans and singing rocks. singing, moving rocks.
he hopes it's 4, but if he's being realistic, it's 1.
"am i dead?" he asks after a beat. "or hallucinating? cause that rock is singing and moving. last i checked that didn't happen."
blond guy laughs. "no, not dead. if you are hallucinating, it's not about rocky. he's real." he pats the clear barrier surrounding the rock, then steps carefully toward simon's cot.
simon takes stock. he feels heavy, groggy, warm, but overall not bad. not bad at all. what was this cot made of? it was so cushiony. "okay."
"good, good." blond guy nods. "you woke up yesterday, but i think i overwhelmed you, so let's try this again."
simon blinks at him, waiting for this retry. the star-blessed is... awkward, clumsy, but charming in a sort of pathetic way.
the guy blinks back a couple times before shaking himself. "right, yeah, so i'm ryland grace!"
there's a long pause where simon debates the merits of lying. if he did lie, he'd catch the monster out when it eventually slips and uses his name in one of it's puppets. but if this is real, he'd rather not start with a lie. "simon."
"simon," ryland tries it out, rolling the name over his tongue and between his teeth with ease. then he smiles again. "welcome to the hail mary."
right. the starship. "starship?"
"yep!" ryland nods again. "we're on course for 40 eridani a."
simon is taken with the sudden and absolute urge to confirm that the stars are there and rule out nunber 3, the crazy delusional freaks theory. the sits up—ignores his left arm—and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. there's a viewing port on the wall not far, and even as he stumbles and probably yanks some things out, he can see them.
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