When my mother forgets a word, she is the queen of coming up with new words. Words that would take a third National Treasure movie to fully decipher. I was talking to her yesterday, and she said this: “You know the time for los jibbities is coming up. You must be so excited!” Oh, is it time for los jibbities already? I must have missed it on my calendar. Are we celebrating something? “Of course! We should all be celebrating, shouldn’t we?” OK, so los jibbities is a happy thing. It’s not like something is giving you the heebie-jeebies, which would have been my one and only guess. “Los heebie-jeebies? Now you’re making things up...and this is my show.” You’re right. The time for los jibbities is coming up. Is this a season? “Yes, the season for love. The season for pride.” OK, los jibbities. “Yeah, sound it out.” Los…jibbities. LGBTs! “Sí, mira cuz you’re gay!” “You couldn’t just say pride season? You couldn’t just… *laughs*
happy end of iron lung day and beginning of pride month. markiplier has escaped the blood ocean and is now curled tight in ryan gosling’s arms. they hold each other as the clock strikes 12, and a new dawn begins. gay as fuck, as god intended
I find it so funny that people are shocked and freaking out that Mark knows about the bloodymary ship as if he wasn't saying shit like this on this very site back in 2015
so I made a badge. Today, is important day in history (sadly, I can't just give yall badges but if you have a badge maker and wanna make yourself please do!)
I have a few other bloodymary badges designs too ^-^
Hiiii! could i request bloodmary x fem!reader in a romantic way but reader is from a different space ship and she ends up meeting the boys because her ship was invaded by an alien! (like the xenomorph from the alien movies) and she is the only survivor of her ship 👽
❝ 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐬. 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧. ❞ R.G & S.T.C ( BloodyMary )
pairing dr. ryland grace x simon the convict x fem! reader 🪽.
synopsis 𖥧 you thought you were done for when that.. thing raided your ship and killed all of your crewmates. looks like, after a surprising turn of events, you're now sharing a ship with a midschool teacher and a convict.
content 𖥧 canon typical violence (alien & iron lung), poly, fem reader.
💬 : YESS MY FIRST BLOODYMARY REQUEST YESSSSSS !!!!
You don't remember the exact moment they pulled you out.
That's the first thing you'll tell Ryland and Simon much, much later. You'll tell them that the memory is a hole in your head, a black spot where a chunk of your life used to be. One moment you were in the escape pod after three days without sleep, without food, without anything except the sounds of screams and murder and cries and howls echoing in the mothership you'd left behind, and the next moment you were surrounded by light.
Not human light. Not the harsh, flickering fluorescents of the space stations you'd grown up on. This light was warm, almost organic, pulsing in frequencies your eyes hadn't evolved to process. And the shapes moving through it —Eridians, you'd learn later, though at the time you thought you were dead and this was some kind of alien afterlife—were so incomprehensible that your brain simply refused to process them.
You passed out.
When you woke up, you were inside a transparent ball. Xenonite. Though you didn't know that yet.
The Eridians had been gentle. That's the part that fucks with your head the most, looking back. They had no reason to be gentle. You were a strange, soft, small creature that had drifted into their territory in a piece of salvage that was barely holding together. They could have ignored you. They could have dissected you. Instead, they'd built you a climate-controlled bubble: warm, pressurized, filled with a thin but breathable atmosphere. Instead they'd transported you across however many light-years to their homeworld.
You don't remember the journey. You remember dreams. Fragments. Your crewmates' faces, one by one. The thing that moved through the corridors of the Gethsemane, a smell like copper and rot and something else, something wrong. You remember being the last one. Not because you were brave. Not because you were smart. Just because the creature had to kill someone first, and then someone second, and then someone third, and then someone fourth, and you were the fifth.
Someone always has to be last.
It had been your turn to be last.
You open your eyes.
Ryland Grace has been living on Erid for approximately two weeks when he hears the news.
He's sitting on the warm sand and he's staring at the stars through the curved xenonite wall of his habitat. It's a dome, massive and circular, built specifically to house a single fragile human being on a planet where the atmosphere would liquefy his lungs and the gravity would crush his spine. Rocky designed it. Rocky built it. Rocky checks on him every few hours, despite Grace's protests that he's fine, he's okay, he doesn't need a babysitter.
"I am not a babysitter. statement." Rocky says, his voice translating through the device they built together, the harmonic bridge between Eridian chirps and human phonemes. "I am a friend. Are you eating. Question."
"I'm eating."
"You are not eating. I am observing. You are pushing the food around."
Grace sighs and looks down at the bowl of algae-paste in his hands. Rocky is right. He's been pushing it around for twenty minutes, not because it tastes bad but because he's been thinking about Earth. About Stratt. About the Petrova line and the astrophage and the billions of people who are, by now, either dead or alive or something in between.
He doesn't know. He'll never know. That's the part he can't accept.
"Rocky," he says. "can I ask you something?"
"You are asking. Statement. I am listening."
"Do you ever think about—"
The door to the habitat opens.
Grace flinches. The door isn't supposed to open. Not without warning. Not without his say-so. He's the only human on Erid. He's the only human within fifteen light-years, at least, probably more, unless there are other survivors out there, which there aren't, because the Hail Mary was the only ship and he was the only—
But the door is open.
And through it, pushed by a team of Eridian scientists whose segmented bodies are pulsing with what Grace has learned to recognize as excitement, come two xenonite spheres.
They're smaller than the one he arrived in. Transport pods, maybe. Temporary housing. Each one is filled with a breathable atmosphere, and each one contains-
Oh no.
Grace stands up so fast he drops his bowl. The algae-paste spills onto the sand. He doesn't care.
"Rocky." he says, his voice very quiet. "Rocky, what is that."
The translation device crackles. "Those are humans. Statement. Two humans."
"I can see that they're humans, Rocky. Why are there two humans in my habitat."
"They were rescued. Statement. One human was found in a damaged submersible vessel in the blood ocean of a moon in a nearby system. Second human was found in an emergency escape pod. Both humans were recovered by Eridian science vessels. Statement. Both humans require an environment suitable to human biology. Statement. This is the only environment on Erid suitable to human biology. Therefore-"
"Therefore they're staying here?" Grace's voice cracks. He can hear it. He doesn't care. "Rocky, you can't just- you can't just drop two random humans into my habitat without asking me first! I'm not—I'm not equipped for this! I'm not a zookeeper!"
"You are not a zookeeper. Statement. You are a human. They are humans. They require-"
"I know what they require! They require oxygen and warmth and- and therapy, probably, look at them, Rocky, look at them!"
He points at the two xenonite spheres, which the Eridian scientists are now gently positioning onto the sand with one of their huge transportation claws that they use to put things inside his habitat without entering. Inside the first sphere, a man. He's huge, muscular. His hair is dark and matted, hanging over a face that's all sharp angles and shadows. He's wearing what looks like a prison uniform, faded and torn, and his hands are scarred. Knuckles broken and healed, broken and healed, broken and healed until they look like knots on a tree.
The man is sitting in the center of his sphere with his knees drawn up to his chest, and he's staring. Not at anything specific. Just staring. His eyes are dark and flat and wrong in a way that makes Grace's hindbrain start screaming predator.
Inside the second sphere, a woman.
You are that woman.
You're younger than the man, he notes. Early twenties, maybe. You're wearing the remnants of a uniform: a patch on the shoulder that Grace can't quite read from this distance, a name tag that's been scratched out. You're not curled up like the man. You're standing. Standing still, your arms at your sides, your head tilted slightly to one side.
And you're looking.
Not staring like the other man. Looking. Your eyes are moving, tracking, cataloging. Every few seconds, your gaze flicks to the xenonite walls, then to the sand, then to the artificial sun-lamp in the ceiling, then to Grace, then back to the man, then to the Eridian scientists outside the dome. You're not blinking enough.
You looks like an animal that's been cornered and has given up on running and is now waiting to see which direction the killing blow will come from.
"Rocky." Grace says, his voice barely a whisper. "Rocky, no."
"Explanation. They are your same species. Statement. They need the same environment. Therefore-"
"Rocky. Look at them. They don't look- they don't look civilized. That one" He points at the man "looks like he's going to murder someone. He looks like he's done murder."
"Humans are a violent species. Question. You are also a human. Does that mean Grace is violent. Question."
"I'm cuddly compared to that guy, Rocky! I'm a teddy bear! I'm- I'm a middle school science teacher who makes beanbag toss jokes! I'm not equipped to handle whatever that is!"
Grace doesn't like this.
His hands are raised. His palms are facing you and Simon. It is a universal sign of peace, of I am not a threat, but his face tells a different story.
His face says: What the fuck have they dropped into my living room.
"Rocky." he says, trying a different angle, "some humans don't like other humans. Some humans are dangerous. I'm not- I'm not comfortable with this. I didn't sign up for roommates. I didn't sign up for- for whatever this is."
Rocky is quiet for a long moment. Grace can see him through the xenonite suit, his clawed hands twitching in that way they do when he's thinking hard.
Then Rocky says. "They are same species. Statement. They need a suitable habitat. Statement. You are not allowed to refuse."
"I'm not allowed?"
"Clarification. The habitat is Eridian property. The Eridian science council has authorized the placement of these humans in this habitat. Statement. You do not have veto power. Statement. I am sorry."
Grace opens his mouth to argue. Closes it. Opens it again.
"Rocky-" he says, very quietly, "I'm going to say something, and I need you to listen very carefully. Those two humans are not normal. They are not okay. Something has happened to them. Something bad. And I don't know how to help them. I don't know how to be around them. I'm a science teacher, Rocky. I teach kids about photosynthesis. I don't- I don't do trauma. I don't do whatever that is."
Rocky's claws twitch again. "Observation. You also experienced trauma. You also were not normal when you arrived. Statement. I helped you. You helped me. Statement. You will help them. Or they will help you. Or you will help each other. Statement. This is what living beings do."
"That's not—"
But Rocky is already turning away to approach the wall of the dome, speaking to the other Eridian scientists through the wall in a rapid series of chirps and clicks that the translation device doesn't catch. And the scientists are moving, their claws reaching for controls.
They're going to open the xenonite balls.
They're going to open them right now.
"Rocky!" Grace says, panic rising in his throat. "Rocky, wait! Rocky, please. At least give me a warning. At least give me- give me a heads-up or something so I can—I don't know, prepare mentally???"
The spheres open.
The xenonite spheres retract like flower petals, dissolving into the sand.
For a moment, nothing happens.
The man (Simon, Grace will learn later) doesn't move. He stays curled up, his knees to his chest, his head down. He looks like a spring that's been compressed too tight, waiting for the pressure to release.
You don't move either. You stand exactly where the sphere deposited you, your arms at your sides, your breathing shallow and controlled.
Grace raises his hands higher. He's not sure why.
"Hi-" he says. His voice comes out too high. He clears his throat and tries again. "Hi. Hello. Um, Welcome. I'm- I'm Ryland. Ryland Grace. I'm a—I'm a human. Obviously. You can see that. I'm human. We're all human here. Ha. That's- that was a joke. Because we're all human. In this habitat. Which is for humans."
Simon looks up.
Oh, Grace thinks. Oh no.
Simon's eyes are wrong. They're not just flat, they're burning. There's something behind them, something hot and hungry and angry, and it's looking at Grace like he's a problem to be solved. Like he's an obstacle. Like he's prey.
Simon stands up.
He doesn't do it slowly. He doesn't do it gracefully. He unfolds, all at once, like a trap being sprung. One moment he's curled on the sand, and the next moment he's on his feet, his shoulders hunched, his hands curled into fists, his head low.
He's looking at Grace.
No, he's looking past Grace. He's looking at the xenonite walls. At the artificial sun. At the sand. At the stars beyond the dome. His lips are moving, but no sound is coming out. He's mouthing something.
"This is- this is my home. Sort of. The Eridians built it for me. And I'm sure you're both very—" He stops. His eyes dart between you and Simon. "...very.. something. But I need you to just. Take a breath. Both of you. Nobody here is going to hurt anybody."
You do not move.
You have learned not to trust people who tell you that nobody is going to hurt you. The last person who said that was your captain, three hours before the thing ripped him in half.
Your eyes seem to convey your distrust.
Grace takes a step back. "Okay," he says. "Okay. Let's all just- let's all just take a breath. Nobody needs to- nobody needs to do anything rash. We're all friends here. We're all-"
Simon turns his head.
He's not looking at Grace anymore. He's looking at you.
His head turns. The motion is slow, mechanical, like a turret swiveling to acquire a target. His eyes find yours. And you see it: the shift, the calculation, the recognition. A potential threat. A variable he did not account for, and variables get people killed.
And you're looking back at him.
Something passes between you. Grace doesn't know what it is. He doesn't want to know what it is. All he knows is that Simon's posture changes: his weight shifts, his center of gravity drops, his hands flex, and your posture changes too. Your shoulders square. Your chin lifts. Your trembling hands stop trembling.
"Okay," Grace says, backing up another step. "Okay. That's- that's a look. That's a look you're giving each other. That's a concerning look. Can we talk about the look? Can we just- can we just use our words—"
You do not know what your face is doing. You have lost the ability to control your face. Somewhere in the three days you spent hiding in the Gethsemane's air vents, listening to the creature drag your crewmates' bodies through the corridors, your face stopped being yours. It became a mask. A flat, wide-eyed, unblinking thing that sees everything and betrays nothing.
Grace sees this. His hands go higher.
Simon moves.
It's not a charge. It's not an attack. It's something more akin to a lunge, a leap, a launch. He crosses the distance between himself and you in less than a second, his arms outstretched, his hands reaching for your throat, your shoulders, your face, anything.
It happens too fast for Grace to react. One moment Simon is standing still, his head turned toward you, his breathing shallow. The next, he is on you. His body crashing into yours, you both hit the sand hard, the wind knocked out of you, and then instinct takes over.
You do not scream.
You have not screamed since the Gethsemane. Screaming attracts things.
But you fight.
Your knee comes up between you and Simon, catching him in the stomach. He grunts but doesn't stop. His fist connects with your jaw, not hard enough to break bone, but hard enough to make your vision white out for a split second. You twist, using the leverage of the sand, and suddenly you are on top of him, your forearm pressed against his throat.
He roars.
It is not a human sound. It is something primal, something scraped out of a throat that has forgotten how to speak. He throws you off with a strength that scares Grace shitless, and now you are both scrambling, both clawing, both grappling. Silent on your end, vocal on his, a symphony of rage and survival and something that sounds like prayer.
Grace is frozen.
He's standing ten feet away, his hands still raised in that useless gesture of peace, his mouth hanging open, his brain refusing to process what he's seeing.
"Rocky." Grace hisses, his voice cracking. "Rocky, do something!"
Outside the xenonite dome, having went out just before the spheres dissolved, Rocky is watching.
His claws are twitching in a pattern that Grace has learned to recognize as excitement. He's chirping to the other Eridian scientists, his voice rapid and almost joyful.
"Rocky!"
"Is this the human mating ritual. Question."
What.
"Rocky, this is NOT a mating ritual!"
"Statement. I am observing. They are gripping each other. They are making sounds. They are exchanging physical contact. Question. Is this not how humans reproduce."
"Rocky!"
"Clarification. I am not understanding the problem. They are mating. This is good."
Grace wants to scream. He wants to tear his hair out. He wants to shake Rocky until his faceted eyes fall out of his head.
"They are not-" Grace chokes on his own words. "They are not doing a mating ritual! They're fighting! They're hurting each other! This is bad, Rocky! This is the opposite of good!"
Rocky's claws stop twitching.
"Oh." he says.
Silence.
"Oh." he says again. "Statement. I may have made a miscalculation."
"You think?"
"BUT THEY ARE SAME SPECIES. EXPLANATION. WHY DO SAME SPECIES TRY TO KILL."
"Because humans are-" Grace stops. Rethinks. "Actually, no, that's a fair question. I don't have a good answer. We just do that sometimes."
"THAT IS BAD. STATEMENT. VERY BAD. BADBADBADBADBAD." Rocky's legs move in an agitated pattern. "THEY ALONE. THEY NEED COMPANY. GRACE DO SOMETHING. COMMAND."
"What do you want me to do?" Grace hisses. "They're either highly trained in combat or they've gone completely feral—I can't tell which—and I am one middle school science teacher. I am not equipped for this. I was equipped for Astrophage. I was equipped for saving the sun. I was not equipped for interpersonal conflict resolution between two traumatized murderers."
Simon has you pinned again.
"EDEN!" Simon howls, and his voice breaks on the word. "EDEN TOOK EVERYTHING! EDEN AND THE- THE GETHSEMANE. THE GETHSEMANE DISAPPEARED AND THIS PLACE-" He punches the sand next to your head, deliberately missing. "THIS PLACE HAS SOMETHING TO DO WITH IT! I KNOW IT DOES! I KNOW!!"
You stop fighting.
Just like that. Your body goes limp beneath him. Your arms fall to your sides. Your eyes, still wide, still unblinking, find his face.
Simon freezes.
His fist is still raised. His knuckles are split, bleeding onto your collar. His chest is heaving. His eyes are wild. But something in your stillness has reached through the red haze, because he doesn't hit you. He can't hit you. Not like this. Not when you are looking at him like that.
"How," you say, and your voice is a ruin. It hasn't been used in days. Maybe weeks. You have forgotten the shape of words. "How do you know about the Gethsemane."
Simon blinks.
His fist lowers, slowly, like a machine winding down. He is still straddling you, still pinning you to the sand, but the violence has drained out of his posture. He looks confused. Lost.
"I'm.. from Eden," he says, and the words come out rough, hesitant, almost questioning. Like a little kid's. "The—the colony. Eden."
"I'm from the Gethsemane," you say, and your voice is shaking now, cracking at the edges. "The ship. The one that went off the grid. My crew- my crew spent years trying to find you. Trying to get back. We were looking for you."
Simon's mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
"You're from Eden." you repeat.
"Yes."
"You're from Eden."
"Yes."
"The Eden."
"I'm from Eden." Simon repeats once again. His voice is harder now. Defensive. "I was there. They sent me on some suicide mission to pay my penances and you-" He looks at your uniform. At the patch on your shoulder. At the scratched-out name tag. "You're from The Gethsemane."
"I'm from The Gethsemane."
"So you did not die."
"Not when you stopped getting the signals." Your voice breaks again, and this time it's not fear. It's grief. "We were stranded for years after a collission. We tried to search for you. And then—" You stop. Swallow. "And then the thing came. The creature. It got them. It got everyone except me. That's when we died, well, they died. I'm still here. as you can see."
Simon is quiet.
His hands are still wrapped around your wrists. He is still pinning you. His face is still inches from yours.
But something has changed.
His weight shifts. His grip loosens. He's not holding you down anymore. He's holding you still. Like he's afraid you'll disappear if he lets go.
"The Gethsemane." he says slowly. "You were on the Gethsemane."
"I was."
"And you were looking for Eden."
"We were."
Simon makes a sound. It's not a word. It's not a laugh. It's something between—a groan, a sigh, a release.
And then he moves.
Not to hit you. Not to hurt you.
He rolls off you, onto his back in the sand, and stares up at the artificial sun. His chest is heaving. His face is bloody. His hands are shaking.
And you're sitting up.
You're looking at him.
Your eyes are still wide, still haunted, but there's something else there now. Something alive.
"You're from Eden." you say again, like you're testing the words.
"I'm from Eden." Simon says.
You throw yourself at him.
Not to fight. Not this time.
You collapse onto him, your arms wrapping around his neck, your face pressing into his shoulder, your whole body shaking.
Simon makes a sound like he's been punched.
Simon, for his part, looks like he has been struck by lightning.
His hands hover in the air, uncertain, trembling. He does not know what to do with this. He has not been touched in kindness—or anything resembling kindness—in longer than he can remember. But his body knows what to do. His arms close around you, slowly at first, then tighter, until his hold is almost painful.
"GRACE."
"What."
"THEY STOP FIGHTING. OBSERVATION."
Grace turns back to look.
He's standing ten feet away, his hands lowered now, his mouth still open, his brain screaming.
"What." he says to no one. "What the fuck."
"THEY TOUCH," Rocky says, and there is something in his tone that Grace has learned to recognize as wonder. "THEY TOUCH AND DO NOT FIGHT. IS THIS... COMFORT. QUESTION."
"Yeah." Grace says, and for a moment, he forgets that he was panicking. For a moment, he just watches two broken people hold each other on the sand, and he thinks about the months he spent alone, about the nights he talked to a wall because he needed to hear a voice, about the first time Rocky touched his hand and he cried because he had forgotten what contact felt like. "Yeah, we do."
Grace approaches slowly.
He's not sure why he's approaching. Every instinct he has is telling him to stay back, to give you space, to not get involved in whatever the hell is happening. But his feet are moving anyway, carrying him across the warm sand, closer and closer to the two broken humans tangled together on the ground.
Simon sees him coming.
"Okay," Grace says, and he takes a step forward. Then another. "Okay. I'm going to- I'm just going to come over there. Very slowly. With my hands where you can see them. Because I am not a threat. I am the least threatening person on this planet. I am probably the least threatening person in this solar system. I once cried because I ran out of coffee. So. You know. Threat level: zero."
You watch him approach. Your head turns to track him, but your body stays still. Simon's head turns too. His eyes narrow.
Grace stops when he is standing over you. He looks down at Simon. Simon who is still laying on the sand, who is still holding you, who is looking up at Grace with an expression that Grace can only describe as proprietary.
Simon's arms tighten around you.
It is not subtle. His biceps flex. His hands press into your back. He pulls you closer to his chest, and his eyes never leave Grace's face.
Grace blinks.
"Okay." he says. "Wow. Okay. Possessive much?"
Simon doesn't even know he's doing it. But his whole body has shifted, curling around you, covering you, like he's protecting you from a threat.
From Grace.
Simon does not answer. He does not loosen his grip.
"I'm not going to take her from you," Grace says, and he means it to be a joke, but it comes out softer than he intended. "I'm just... I'm just going to sit down. Over here. Away from you. Where I am not a threat. Because I am really committed to not being a threat."
He sits down in the sand, cross-legged, a few feet away. Far enough to give Simon space. Close enough to talk.
For a long moment, nobody speaks.
Simon glares at him.
It's not the same glare from before. That glare was hostile, dangerous, predatory. This glare is something else. This glare is possessive.
And you're still clinging to him.
Simon's expression softens. Just a fraction. Just enough.
And then he looks up at Grace.
"Where are we." he says. It's not a question. It's a demand.
Grace swallows. "Erid"
He then makes a gesture, motioning over to the wall behind of which there are a few Eridians congregated. Simon follows Grace's gesture.
He looks at Rocky.
Rocky waves.
Simon's expression doesn't change.
"An alien colony." he says flatly.
"Friendly aliens." Grace corrects immediately when he sees the way you tense in Simon's arms. "They're- they're nice. Mostly. They're just curious. They saved you, by the way. You and-" He looks at you. "your friend."
You blink at him.
Simon is still looking at Rocky. His expression is calculating. He's trying to understand. Trying to process.
"The aliens brought us here." he says slowly.
"Eridians." Grace says. "And yes. They brought you here. To my habitat. Because apparently I'm the only human on this planet and they thought I needed roommates."
Simon looks back at Grace.
"You're alone here." he says.
"I was alone here." Grace corrects. "Now I'm not alone. For better or worse."
Simon is quiet for a long moment.
Then he looks down at you.
"We're not leaving." Simon says, it's a question.
"Doesn't seem like we have any options here" you answer.
Grace sighs.
"No," he admits. "No we don't."
You and Simon finally separate.
"I'm from the Gethsemane." you tell Ryland, as if testing the words. "I'm the only one left."
Simon's jaw tightens. "I'm from Eden."
The three of you form a rough triangle on the warm sand. The artificial sun is dimming, mimicking a sunset that doesn't exist on this planet. The xenonite walls are glowing softly, casting long shadows across the dome.
Outside, Rocky is still watching.
He's not alone anymore. Other Eridian scientists have gathered, their segmented bodies pressed against the xenonite, their faceted eyes fixed on the three humans sitting in a circle. They're fascinated. They're observing. They're taking notes, probably, in whatever way Eridians take notes.
Grace tries to ignore them.
"You're both from the same system." he says, rubbing his temples. "That's- that's something. That's a coincidence. Or maybe it's not. Maybe the Eridians have been looking for humans. Maybe they found you because they were trying to find you."
Simon snorts. "They found me because I was drowning in a submarine full of blood."
"They found me because I was drifting in an escape pod." you say quietly. "I didn't even know they were there. I didn't even see them. I just.." You stop. Swallow. "passed out. And then I woke up here."
Grace nods slowly.
"The Eridians are rescuers," he explains. "That's- that's kinda what they do. They find things. They save things. They're curious. They wanted to know what you were. They wanted to help."
Simon's jaw tightens. "I didn't ask for help."
"You didn't have to."
Simon glares at him.
Grace holds up his hands. "I'm not saying- look, I get it. I didn't ask for help either. I was forced onto the Hail Mary. I didn't want to be here. I wanted to be on Earth, in my classroom, with my students. I wanted to live."
"But you're here." Simon says.
"But I'm here." Grace agrees. "And I'm alive. And so are you. And so is she." He looks at you. "And maybe, just maybe, that's something. Don't you think?"
You look at Simon.
Simon looks at you.
You both look back at Ryland.
"Eden." Ryland sais. "Tell me about Eden."
Simon's expression shifts. The anger doesn't disappear, it's still there, simmering beneath the surface, but something else rises to meet it. Longing. Grief. Hope.
"Eden is a colony." he says slowly. "A survivor colony. After the stars in our sollar system went out, after the Quiet Rapture, the stations started falling apart. People started dying. But Eden—Eden held on. We had resources. We had leadership. We had-"
He stops.
His hands curl into fists.
"We had a religion." he says, the word bitter on his tongue. "A cult. They said- they said the stars went out because humanity had sinned. Because we had reached too far. They said the only way to survive was to repent. To sacrifice."
Your eyes widen.
"The Gethsemane ship," you whisper. "That's- that's where the name came from. The Bible."
Simon nods. "The ship was named after the covenant. It was supposed to be a pilgrimage. A mission. They sent it out to find—I don't even know what. Salvation. Redemption. Something."
"And you were on it?" Asks Ryland.
Simon laughs. It's a hollow sound.
"I was on it, alright." he says.
A beat of silence.
"So.. this is your place." you say. It is not a question.
"It's... temporary." Grace says. "The Eridians are building a ship to take me back to Earth. But it's going to take a while. Astrophage engines are fast, but they're not instant. So I'm here. Living in a bubble. Talking to a rock."
"And how did you get here?"
Simon looks at him.
"Um- my sun was.. dying, the main star of my solar system y'know and they sent.. me and a few other people to try and fix it." he says. "long story short, those people died and i was alone until Rocky found me, his star was also dying, so we worked together."
"I assume something went wrong."
Simon inquires.
"You assume right." Grace admits. "Things went south in Rocky's ship so I sacrificed my return to earth to get him home safe, and he brought me with him so.. here I am."
A beat.
"I have so many questions to ask you two. But I'm not going to ask them. Because I feel like that would be rude."
Simon snorts. It is the first sound he has made that is not angry or confused. It is almost... amused.
"Rude." Simon repeats. "You're worried about being rude."
"I'm a scientist living in an alien zoo," Grace huffs, a sound almost mimicking an exhasperated sigh. "Manners are all I have left."
Something passes between you and Simon. A look. A shared recognition of absurdity. You are sitting on alien sand, beneath an alien sky, next to a man who talks like he's hosting a podcast, and somewhere outside the dome, a rock spider is watching you with what you can only assume is fascination.
Outside the xenonite dome, Rocky turns to the other Eridian scientists.
"Statement," he says proudly. "Humans are doing the mating ritual."
This is an awesome use of what is probably a master's degree if not a doctorate and I am 100% thrilled that she shared it even though it was embarrassing and she squeaked.
Californian (sup, fellow desert-havers) i've been using this since i saw it and it works so fucken good dude (i often have to put like 8 dogs in my car, so it's extra important my car isn't attempting to go super-nova when we get in)
kianamaiart
turnnoffyourmind
annaxmalina
titsay
