Chapter Text
His head killed, his ears rang, and his body felt pulled apart. Still, he made desperate attempts to talk through the radio, calling out for anybody. If there was a response, he’d be utterly fucked in hearing it, but at least he’d contacted someone. Anyone. Please, he was on board the... whatever it was, the ship crashed, they’re stranded. Send help, whoever’s out there. Was he even broadcasting to an open channel? Was he even using the radio? Was the radio working? He couldn’t see anything, he didn’t know anything.
Simmons stayed as still as he could, trying to regain any sense he had left knocking around his head. While numb, he could tell he was on his stomach. In the dirt, probably, but that wasn’t important. He was in full armour, a bit of mud was nothing. Right? He’s okay, Sarge is millimetres away probably complaining about the state he was in. Right? And Grif would also be on the floor, using it as an excuse to nap. Right? They were just by him, he just couldn’t see or hear them.
“Grif?” Simmons choked out, still blinded by the state his helmet was in. He used every last bit of energy and pushed himself off the ground to his knees. The blood he had left flooded back to his body within seconds, and he almost fell back down. He tried moving his arms, but he couldn’t feel his left. It wasn’t the usual oh-it’s-a-cybernetic-arm inability to feel. It had been ripped right off, he knew it.
“Sarge?!” Simmons called out, using his remaining hand to pull his helmet off. It was a clumsy endeavour, but at least he could see now. The dust around him began to clog his throat, but the air filters somewhere in his respiratory system fended for him. Taking two deep breaths, he looked around him. Wreckage, rubble, debris. No Red team. No Blue team. No Freelancers. No AI. Just...
Just the rest of the crew dead and between the shrapnel of a crashed spacecraft. Simmons gagged, trying to haul himself up but collapsing again. That’s right, imbalanced. He looked down at the missing arm, and while seeing wires and leaking fuel wasn’t the same as seeing bone and blood, he still flinched. Well, as it is still technically a part of him, he allowed the grief to be a reasonable reaction.
Nobody around him was alive. His team... they were probably dead too. He stared at the ground, and let himself cry. He wasn’t ready for this, not at all. Please, oh please, let them be somewhere else. He grabbed his helmet, saw the cracks in the visor, and almost threw up. Simmons should’ve been dead, shouldn’t he? Died alongside the rest of the crew, the rest of his team.
He threw the helmet to the floor, and it rolled away. His armour was starting to suffocate him, but he couldn’t just strip. What if this was a joke? Yeah, Simmons thought, the crew would get up and laugh while Grif walked through the tattered halls of the ship to reach him. And then they’d argue, make up, and end up arguing about something less important but bring it to a bigger scale. Like... using Simmons’ toothbrush.
“Hello?!” He called out once again, hopefully. “Please, it’s not funny! Please!”
The silence taunted him senseless. Simmons’ mind tried to get him to hyperventilate, but the metal lungs were stronger than that. Half wondering if he should grab a big of wrecked ship and beat himself to death, half wondering how different it would be if his team was with him. It would not be any different, not really, but Sarge would blame the Blues and both Tucker and Simmons would get a rise out of that (and part of Simmons wanted to go ‘bow chicka bow wow’ to himself, how sad) and Grif would roll his eyes and Caboose would laugh and Wash would remind Sarge in his strained voice that there is no war between either teams, how many times does it have to be said-
“Hello?!” He called out again, begging now. Begging for any member of the crew to be alive, somewhere, anywhere. Please, oh please.
Nobody was here, and Simmons shook all thought from his already overthinking mind. He was shaking now, not shivering, because if he was shivering then his entire left half would try to warm him up because Sarge was stupid - or intuitive (but Sarge isn’t here, so he doesn’t have to suck up, so it’s stupid) - enough to believe that if Simmons was ever cold, he’d be dying, so built the system that would try to save him from freezing, but this was a dumb idea - or quick thinking (but Sarge isn’t here, so...) - as Simmons is naturally cold and wears six layers in summer sometimes which is what Grif always comments on and-
A voice snapped him out of it.
“Someone’s there!” The voice said, to which Simmons perked up instantly. He wiped his face with his hand, though the armour protecting it just smeared it around.
“Hello?!” He called out again, stupidly. “I don’t- I don’t know where I am, and- and I cant move!”
“Hang on son, we’re coming!” The voice called back, and Simmons let his guard down.
He grabbed his helmet, fumbled to put it on again, and sighed shakily. He remembered Donut was still in Valhalla, he’d still have him. They’d get him out and drop him back off where he came from. Simmons deflated and stared at the darkness of his visor. It was the least he could do, honestly, to keep himself sane. Hidden, but not tucked away from his rescuers. What a contradiction, he thought as footsteps came running, what a strange place he’d found himself.
“Richard Simmons? One of the folks who took down Project Freelancer?” The voice from earlier asked, closer now.
“Yes, th-“ how did they know his name? He didn’t get time to process it, Simmons couldn’t even finish his sentence.
He was hit in the back of the head.