Chapter Text
Everything hurts. Not as much as it should, surely, a tingling numbness dampening the sharp and shredding pain even as it attempts to spread out through his entire body. It’s similar to one giant bruise getting pressed against a sharp edge. His head feels like it’s been stuffed full of cotton, his eyes too heavy to open and ears ringing. Is this death? It must be, and how anticlimactic it is. Trapped in the muted pain of his body with nothing but his thoughts in the darkness. It’s not even that different from the sub. Preferable, even, because it’s not sweltering anymore and he can’t feel the blood sticking to his skin.
He’s not sure how much time passes like this, if any, maybe death exists outside of such constraints, before the ringing in his ears starts to settle. He can make out the shape of a voice, soft and indistinguishable. It’s not Ava’s, or that guy who’d dropped him back down the second time (David, he thinks Ava had said near the end), probably not Jack either, and definitely not that damned eel. He wants to just ignore it. Dead men don’t need to worry about voices, do they? He can just drift, and drift, and drift without a care in the universe.
The voice is insistent though. Droning on until it carves a discernible shape into his brain. “What is two plus two,” it asks. What the fuck kind of stupid question is that? Why is the voice bothering him with something so inane? It keeps repeating, pausing in between for an answer and continuing on when it gets none. Over and over, the tone never changing as if it’s just a recording playing back on a loop.
He wants it to stop. The longer it goes on the more… aware he feels. The numbness pulling back and pain blooming in its place, lancing through his skin straight into his bones. If he answers, will it go away or just ask for more? Everyone always wants more from him, he’s never enough. It takes effort to work his jaw, his mouth dry as he struggles to swallow. He tries to remember the shape of words, only managing an inelegant, “guh,” despite his best efforts.
“Incorrect,” the voice says, “what is two plus two?”
“Guhhh,” he says again, irritation rising in the back of his throat. It hurts, an internal itch like it’s been rubbed raw. He sucks in a deep breath, wheezing it back out with a strangled, “four.”
“Correct,” the voice says and goes silent. Thank fuck. He hopes it’s over, that the voice doesn’t have anymore questions, but the almost-serenity is already shattered. He wheezes again, stiffly jerking his head to the side to cough. It’s a broken, hacking sound that pulls at his chest and he hears a rapid dripping sound inside his ear from the force of it.
When it all settles down he slumps back down onto… whatever he’s laying on, because apparently that’s what he’s doing. It’s hard to tell beneath all the hurt but he thinks it might be comfortable. Better than anything else he’s ever laid on, at least, even if that’s not saying much. He tries to open his eyes, to see what the afterlife looks like, but immediately squeezes them shut again when the light stabs into him.
The eel’s voice rings in his head–the light, the light, the light–and he groans. This is different than the light that thing had crooned about, he’s pretty sure. Not as blindingly bright but just as painful. He doesn’t get thrown back into a vision of endless blood, at least. He tries again. And again. His head feels like he’s splitting in two, but eventually he manages to squint and remember what sight is like.
The stark white blur around him slowly condenses into shapes, sterile and cold and completely foreign in its cleanliness. There’s only so much you can do when resources are limited, grime building up without enough water to drink let alone scrub the growing stains. Rust and discoloration marring every surface until it might as well be what it looked like when it was made. But this… he didn’t know things could look like this. So pristine and free of filth. It reminds him of some of the Father’s teachings, the perfection of heaven. But that’s never been the final destination he was headed for, his soul dirtied the first time he picked up a knife and did as he was told. A mockery to further his torment, then.
He forces himself to sit up, feeling off balance. Too heavy on one side, or too light on the other. Before he can get his bearings there’s a flurry of sound to the left of him, and he has to turn his head further than he feels he should to see the source of it. A man, awkwardly clambering down a ladder so fast his fingers nearly slip on the rungs and he lands on the ground with a heavy thud that makes him stumble back a few steps before finding his balance. Like a child still learning to walk. Not a threat, easy to take down if need be. He turns, eyes wide behind wire frames as they dart up and down, and starts talking like he doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut.
“Oh, gosh,” the man says, “you’re really awake. It was kind of touch and go there for a while, I wasn’t sure if… Well, it doesn’t matter! You’re healing faster than I expected, honestly, and there’s still plenty of morphine until you’re not in pain anymore… How are you feeling? Are you up to eating? I can get you something light, and then we can… Oh! Let me get you some water, you must be thirsty.”
He stares at the man, not really processing his ramblings. He looks… soft? All wrapped up in clean, warm-looking clothes with no holes or stains or sloppy patchworked mending. The rest of him looks clean too, freshly shaven and dirt free. And who knew people rich enough to own glasses still existed? He could almost be mistaken for one of the angels the Father spoke of if it wasn’t for the scar peaking past the pushed up sleeve of his cardigan. Everyone knows angels can’t be sullied by harm. Maybe a demon masquerading as one could, though. A weak one.
The man is still talking as he moves across the room, something about vitals and healing times and miracles. He opens a cabinet, rummaging around before pulling out a little silver pouch. “I guess it’s a good thing I never got around to moving the rest of the water out of here… convenient, huh?” The man walks closer, holding the pouch of (alleged) water out and visibility faltering when it isn’t taken from him. “Uh… fudge, sorry, can you understand me? I should’ve prepped the translator, I just haven’t needed it in so long that I kind of forgot I ha–”
“You COI?” It would make sense, maybe. If this isn’t hell and he isn’t a demon playing tricks. If somehow Ava fulfilled at least part of the deal. The COI would have some fancy, overly clean oasis hidden away from the undeserving masses and enjoyed by the pampered elite entertaining themselves with… whatever this is. Playing pretend nice with pet inmates? Which wasn’t the fucking deal, he was supposed to be free not shoved in a shinier cage.
“Am I what,” the man asks. He actually looks confused, furrowing his brow and tilting his head. “What’s, uh, what’s COI?” It’s not even worth dignifying with a response. Does he think he’s being funny? Is he just stupid? Or does the man think he’s stupid? That’s what everyone thinks, isn’t it? Even back on Eden everyone knew he was nothing but a weapon to be pointed in the right direction, not worth having thoughts of his own.
“Don’t bullshit me,” he says, anger settling like a familiar weight on his shoulders, and he drags an arm up to point at the man even though his center of balance is still fucked and it makes him sway slightly. “I’m tired of all of you fucking with me. We had a deal, and you kept changing it and asking for more but I fucking did it! I took your pictures, and got your samples, and I nearly died for your black box so don’t treat me like an idiot. I want what’s mine.”
“Uh…” The man stares at him with those wide eyes, lips parted in surprise and hands raised in surrender, silver pouch held loosely between his fingers. “Sorry I… I really don’t know what you’re talking about. But I can try and get you whatever it is that you want, if you tell me what it is.”
“I want my freedom,” he says. His skin itches, overly tight, and it makes his blood burn hotter from the discomfort. It’s hard to think, to see, to breathe. “You said you would let me go, we had a deal!”
“Yea. Yea, yea, yea,” the man says quickly, words tripping over themselves in their haste to get out. “Yea, of course. You, uh… you really should stay here until you’re all healed up but after that we can figure out sending you back–”
“I’m not going back down there!” Everything hurts, bubbling and bursting and he can feel his skin peeling back, blood rushing in to fill the gaps torn into him. He’s not going back, he can’t. He doesn’t even know how he got out in the first place, if the eel is dead or still waiting for him with its jaw unhinged and hungry. He brings his hands up to his head, tugging sharply on his hair and pushing away the fact that he only feels the sting on one side because he can’t think about what that means right now. He already knows, the feeling of ripping sinew seared into his memory, but it’s too much when his heart is already pounding so hard. “You can’t make me go back! Where’s Ava? She promised me, in and out. I’m not doing this anymore!”
“You don’t have to, it’s okay!” The man is still staring with those wide eyes, backing himself up towards the ladder. He looks scared, and in the end isn’t that how everyone feels? Frightened of the butcher lashing out, unable to keep his emotions in check or fall in line no matter how hard he tries to not fuck it up for once. “I really think we’re getting off on the wrong foot here. I don’t know what happened between you and Eva–”
“Ava,” he snaps, cutting the man off again. “Her name is Ava. What the fuck is wrong with you?” She lied to him from the moment they met, sealing him in a death trap without a single care for what would happen to him as long as she got what she wanted, but her name is Ava. His name has been stripped from him for longer than he ever had it, and he can’t let it happen to anyone else even if they wouldn’t do the same for him. And she… she tried in the end, hadn’t she? Screaming over the speaker, just as helpless as him. The anger drains out of him just as fast as it came, carving out his insides and leaving him hollow as he slumps forward and stares down at his one hand, flayed skin hidden under tightly wrapped bandages. His voice is even rougher now, quiet and torn. “Fuck. Sorry, I… sorry.”
The man doesn’t say anything at first, shuffling around the room outside his smaller-than-normal peripheral vision. How much of him is ruined beyond repair? How much of him is still useful? The silver pouch gets very carefully nudged into his line of sight, pushed along the cot beside his leg. There’s a straw sticking out the top now.
“It’s okay,” the man says, “you’ve clearly been through a lot so it’s normal for your emotions to be a little heightened. How about you drink some water and then we can start over?”
He eyes the pouch suspiciously, weighing the possibilities of it actually being water and not something else. It’s probably not got something suspicious in it, right? He’s been trying to ignore the tube sticking out of his arm, one of those fancy medical things he’d read about once in a half-rotten book he’d dug out of the compost pile, that leads up to a few bags of what must be the morph-whatever and he remembers enough to know if the man wants to poison him he could just use that. And alcohol is an even rarer resource than water, no one would have a whole pouch of the vile shit to waste on someone like him. Just the little bit on the sub had been unheard of, and after getting to actually try it himself he’s certain the scarcity is the only thing that gives it any appeal.
He picks up the pouch slowly, intending to only take a sip or two, but as soon as the cool liquid hits the dry husk trying to pass itself off as his tongue instincts take over and then it’s gone before he can stop himself. Stupid. He’s wasted it, just like last time, and who knows when he’ll be given the chance again. Why was he always so impulsive? He can never make things last, never ration his scraps properly.
“Wow,” the man says, and he has to fight against the urge to flinch at the judgement, “I thought there was enough fluid in the IV but I guess it can’t beat good old fashioned water. If your stomach still feels okay in a little bit we can try some broth or something before moving you up to solids.”
“Am I dead,” he asks. He’d been certain of it at first, but now he’s not so sure. He’s unworthy of heaven, and hell would be more outright torturous. Maybe he isn’t good enough for either and got flung into limbo, but that feels wrong too. “I think I died but… I don’t know.”
“No,” the man says quickly. He laughs nervously, the weight of his hip leaning against the cot making it shift slightly. “Like I said it was a little touch and go for a while but no. You’re alive. And it looks like you’ll make… well, not a full recovery, maybe, but as close to it as possible. It’s actually pretty remarkable, really.”
So maybe there’s hope for his continued usefulness yet. It’ll be an adjustment, but Ava had managed to maintain her role as a captain in the COI with only one working eye. Surely there’s somewhere he can be put to work that only needs the one arm. Part of him is praying that the limited visibility is from bandaging instead of something permanent, but deep down knows his prayers are never the ones that get answers. So his options are limited, but when has he gotten anything more than that?
“Anyway…” The man continues slowly when he doesn’t get an answer, apparently determined to keep a conversation going. “I’ve been a little scatterbrained this whole time, I completely forgot about introductions. I’m Grace, what’s your name?” Grace. A blessing, heaven’s favor. No one in the COI would lower themselves enough to give a child such a name, and no one in Eden would presume the right. He looks more than old enough to have been born before the Quiet Rapture, but anyone in their right mind would have changed it by now. Since when was there a third faction?
“Simon,” he says. It feels weird to say it, uncomfortable even. Like it shouldn’t still belong to him but he can’t bear to part with it.
“It’s nice to meet you, Simon,” Grace says, breaking into a bright smile that makes him want to look away. He holds a hand out for a few tense moments before dropping it when Simon doesn’t do anything more than stare. “Right, that’s fine… you didn’t answer earlier, how are you feeling?”
“Like shit,” he says honestly. Grace makes a face and Simon makes one back, the flesh of his cheek pulling uncomfortably. “…It could be worse? The morph…thing… is helping, I guess. I’m fine. It’s, it’s okay.” Grace’s expression tightens slightly, his eyes flickering across Simon’s face and chest before shooting back up. Simon drops his head down to actually look, intentionally skipping over the bandaged stump on his left side to count the yellow-brown bruising peaking out past even more bandages wrapped around his bare chest. His back undoubtedly looks the same, and he’s currently wearing an unfamiliar pair of pants that hide the damage to his legs but he knows they’re not much better off. He was expecting more, honestly. “Yea. Could be a lot worse.”
Grace makes a high pitched noise, something in Simon’s neck popping as he quickly brings his head back up to look at him. His hands are over his face, glasses pushed up towards his hair as he leans over with his elbows on the cot. Simon shifts his legs a little further away. “Do you remember what happened to you,” Grace asks, his voice slightly muffled.
“More or less.” A lot of what happened in the sub is a jumbled blur, a mess of blood and indiscernible screaming and long stretches of nothing but being alone, trying to find his way back to something that was never waiting for him in the first place. Enough sticks out to paint a picture, but he can’t be sure how much of it was real and how much was just in his head.
“Right, okay.” Grace drags his hands down his face as he straightens back up, his glasses settling too far down his nose as he looks at Simon over them. He starts to say something before stopping, huffing out a breath and shaking his head. “I’m gonna go get that broth. Is there anything else I can get you?”
Simon considers it, his gaze sliding to the wall behind Grace. He should say no. It’s dangerous to let his debt build up too much, and outright asking for things always costs more than just letting someone choose the favors they give. He clears his throat, pushing out the words anyway. “Do you… know where the pendant went?”
“Pendant? Oh, yea!” Grace turns, darting over to the other side of the room and opening a new cabinet. He keeps talking as he looks through it before walking back over. “Most of your clothes were too damaged to repair, but I think the pendant held up pretty okay? I thought it might be important or sentimental so I did my best to clean it up…”
Simon snatches the pendant out of his hands as soon as he holds it out, not caring that it’s rude. There’s thin lines of blood stuck in spiderweb cracks along the resin but it’s otherwise undamaged. A rare blessing. He tightens his grip on it until he can feel it digging into his palm through the bandages, holding it to his chest and curling his shoulders in on himself. “…Thank you.”
“No problem,” Grace says, clearing his throat, “I’ll be right back, okay?” Simon doesn’t bother responding, and after a few moments of silence Grace turns and climbs back up the latter leaving Simon alone again. He takes a deep breath, feeling the ache as his lungs expand, and uses his teeth to wrap the pendant around his wrist before slumping back down on the cot.
What the actual fuck is going on?