Chapter Text
It’s been six months since Simon arrived on the Mary and five since he’s woken up.
He doesn’t remember much about the whole arriving part; just that he opened his eyes one day in a place he didn’t recognize with a robotic arm looming over him, asking stupid questions. No clue as to how he’d arrived, he had tried to slap the thing away with a hand that was no longer there. His first few days being awake were sort of violent, and Grace is sick of him apologizing about it but he feels bad nonetheless. There were just so many strange things.
There’d been Grace, too. Who’d saved him. Simon found him horribly, horribly easy to trust. Either very open, or very, very good at hiding things. He’s a scientist, though a different kind than anything Simon’s ever seen. Very talkative, curious in a way that doesn’t quite lean into fixation. He wears stupid shirts that Simon doesn’t really understand, asks a lot of weird questions (not unlike the robot arm), doesn’t curse, and is dangerously generous. He never demands payment for anything. In fact, he continues to offer Simon things, even if Simon’s said no before.
So many things— he even allowed Simon to touch the small plants nestled on a shelf in the middle of the ship, letting Simon care for them. Asks Simon if he wants to watch something with him, wants any extra clothes. And if Simon says no to him, he doesn’t care. Just moves on. It’s bewildering, and Simon had wondered just what he’d done to deserve a bigger ship like this, to deserve company like this.
(And how. He’d wondered how many, many times during many a sleepless night).
Grace had said they’d found him in a ship, one made of metal floating through space that’d connected to their radio, one that they’d had to cut open using an alien tool. Inside, they’d found Simon, bloody and bleeding and without an arm, breathing, shockingly, because there was no oxygen inside. For some reason, they’d dragged him into their ship and patched him up, and hadn't asked him for anything in return.
They think he’d maybe just appeared there, ‘big bang style’, because they had been light years away from any planet that could have an atmosphere and Simon had still been alive.
And while that story sort of sounds like bullshit, part of it makes Simon pause. Made him remember the conversation he’d had with the eel/not eel before he’d woken up on the ship.
‘Isn't it more likely that we disappeared, and they're all wondering where all of us went?’
It was unfathomable. The chance that the eel might’ve dragged him through the veil rather than to death, through the veil and back to where the stars always were, just like he’d always thought. A little too good to be true, but he wasn’t about to question it. Just thanked whichever entity, divine or no, that brought him here, and then shoved all the hows to the absolute root of his mind so he could think about them way later. Because now he has a chance at life, an actual life, and he sure as fuck isn’t going to pass it up anytime soon.
Although life may have come with a bit of unintended side-effects, because whatever the eel did to bring him through to this side of reality —the side without any of the ships that went missing— it made sure it stuck around, made a mark. Namely, a mark on Simon.
Internally and externally, there are eel parts. All over him, like some kind of unholy disease. Gills on his neck, sharp teeth on his left cheek and in his teeth, a smattering of scales along his arms and shoulders. So many things that aren’t his, aren’t meant for him. Unnatural. A fin protruding from his back, an eye so bloodshot it’s nearly black, fucking claws, and something Grace had called a ‘nocturnal circadian rhythm’.
(he has no idea what the last one is).
He hates them, all of them, and tried to get rid of them at first sight (first feel, because they do, in fact, poke out quite a bit). A memory of laying in the ship’s bathroom, tears going down his face and into his (fake) (horrible) (disgusting) mouth as he tried to process that the mangled, malformed thing in the mirror was him, is one he visits often. Reminds him that he doesn’t belong. He’d even attempted to pluck the scales out, but Grace had stopped him.
For the first three months afterwards, he’d refused to look in a mirror. But he checked with his hands, hopes dashed every time he’d felt the unfamiliar mutations littering his body. As the months went on, though, they hadn’t seemed to be doing anything. Nothing was growing, there was no blood (besides when he was too careless), and no eel whispering his failures directly into his head. Nothing. Just a weird reflection he was getting used to, and the apparent inability to sleep easily when the lights are off.
Overall, he’d thought eventually, not too bad a trade for the rest of his lifetime free from everything.
Because he really was free, here. There was no prison, no COI, no eel (except for the bits on himself), nothing hunting him down and nobody to know what he had or hadn’t done.
Not much of anybody, actually. Just him, Grace, and this alien shit named Rocky.
If there was proof that this was all real, not some fucked-up alien hallucination, it was Rocky. Nothing in all the branches of life could have made his brain imagine that guy. Sure, he’s nice, always has been, but Simon still can’t quite get over him. (It had helped him give up and accept the mutations on himself sooner, too, seeing how weird this alien looked). A rock with legs. That rolled around in a little ball or in his own half of the dormitory. That talked using a computer. That was apparently a super-genius. It was insane and frankly went against everything Simon believed. But he also never really thought he’d see stars again. And there were stars. When he’d gotten past the first day or so of absolute panic, he’d been more enamored with the view outside than the ‘Eridian’ watching them sleep.
That was another thing he did— kept guard as they slept. It was a cultural thing, to keep them safe. Both of them, because apparently Grace trusted him enough to let them all sleep in the same room (although Rocky didn’t actually sleep that often). Simon thought that maybe that was a bit stupid, letting someone like him close.
As much as that bugged him, though, he’d been too busy trying to understand the shitload of information that Grace had given him upon his calming down to comment. It had taken a lot of long lectures and annoying puppet shows for Simon to reach something close to understanding all that was going on here, and that was a stretch. Everything about the ‘star eaters’ had confused him and, well, freaked him out, and the increasingly unfamiliar words Grace was prone to using didn’t help. But at least now he has a general idea of what life is like on the other side of the veil.
In turn, he’d given the barest explanation on where he comes from, what he’d come from, leaving out a few key details he’d rather Grace not know. (pretty much all of it, if he’s being honest). If he stays polite, which he has been, and helps out, which he wants to, does it matter anyway? He can adjust just fine. Grace had given him a notebook, to write whatever in, so Simon tried to keep track of whatever new information came along. It’s nearly full. He’s still not entirely sure he understands what’s going on most of the time. But, again, he wasn’t about to ruin a perfectly good chance of a new life because he doesn’t get a few things.
Okay, a lot of things.
For one, there was no religion. At all. Which was especially jarring whenever he fucked up, went to sleep, or shared a meal with them. His muttered prayer was questioned at first by Grace (What religion do you practice? Do you need a separate space, at all? Any dietary needs?), upon which he found himself rendered speechless. He should’ve expected it— nothing Grace did followed any rules he’d grown up with (the man wore skirts, for fuck’s sake), but the fact that he was okay with Simon following his own rules even though he didn’t do the same confused Simon more than he wanted to admit.
Second, and this one had been prominent, everything was shared, or given. For free. Simon was offered food, even when he never asked for anything, and it felt so weird, so wrong, that he could only bring himself to accept it half the time. Even then, he felt suspicious. Like it was going to stop. Grace, five weeks later, had caught Simon hoarding his half-empty packets of what had been labeled ‘coma slurry’ underneath his bed. He hadn’t taken it away, just told Simon that no, the food wasn’t going to go away and he could keep it under there if he wanted, but it would be a lot safer with Armando, wouldn’t it?
Simon had reluctantly agreed, and though he still feels a little on edge about it, the food was still there whenever. Even when Grace didn’t offer, and he just asked, one was handed to him. Grace did seem more and more tense as the days went on, every mealtime, but Simon wasn’t sure if it was correlated. Still, he tried to eat as little as possible, just enough to keep himself satiated, but then another problem arose.
Rocky had pointed it out at first, and then Grace had followed it, but over the course of weeks he’d been more and more fatigued. Slower. Even his insides, too, Rocky had pointed out, were slower than they were upon arrival. Simon had no fucking clue what was going on, but Grace had taken a little bit of his blood and run off with it for a few days, coming back with the bad(?) news:
Simon was deficient.
He had no idea what that meant, but apparently Grace did. Apparently, the eel hadn’t stopped with fucking up his respitory system— it had also made his digestion a lot different. Made him too greedy. Grace had explained, thankfully with less puppets this time, what Simon’s bloodwork was showing: that he was being affected by a lack of many, many things that human bodies do not typically need. That no human body would need.
Glad to know I’m not human, then.
Grace and Rocky had been intent on fixing this, even though Simon wasn’t dying or anything. They’d taken a bit more blood and, after a week, decided that what Simon needed was metal. Specifically, the kind Grace had described as ‘poison. Literally just poison.’ He’d used those words after Simon had first seen Rocky asleep, and had asked what the foil wrapping on the floor was. There were crumbs on it, he could tell, and while he knew even an alien would have to eat, he never thought it would be that meat-looking. Or toxic.
But now, for him at least, it isn’t. Toxic, he means. They’d cooled off a package of Rocky’s food in the airlock and let Simon try a very, very small portion. It was, despite Grace and Rocky’s reassurances, an experiment. He knew that. It was risky. He was expecting sudden death, a burning sensation, to start turning into a rock, something. But there was nothing, to Rocky and Grace’s delight. Not a touch of poisoning. So they continued. And after days of this, his labs had come back looking a lot better to them.
All Simon had heard was that he was unnatural and wrong, but whatever.
This is how he’d slowly increased his portion of it, over the past few weeks, until he was eating pretty much only Eridian food. He doesn’t know what that says about him, but at least he’s back to full energy. It’s noticeable, too– his hair is less brittle, his sharp fingers hurt less when he puts pressure on them— and the weird metal food doesn’t taste half bad. Not as bad as the coma slurry, anyway.
So Simon wasn’t deficient anymore, nothing seemed to be going wrong. The entire ship seemed to be holding its breath.
It wasn’t until they’d reached that point that Grace had pulled out a whiteboard. That was the first sign that it was bad. He’d sat the two of them down (or settling, for Rocky), and confessed something (using a lot of math problems). Grace had been so wound up, so tense, Simon had a hard time paying attention. Tension makes him nervous, makes him feel trapped. Grace had known what he was doing, though. He’d used a lot of numbers, a lot of tangents, and a lot of math Simon didn’t want to follow, but the essentials had been boiled down to five bullet points.
Five bullet points, currently written boldly in Ryland Grace’s neat scrawl in the middle of the board:
- # of P needed to reach Erid: 1314.5 (P = 400kcal)
- # if rationing: 919.8
- Currently in stock: 793.2
- Taumoeba status: Inedible (P = 1kg)
- Verdict: :(
They’re all looking at it now, silent. Simon isn’t entirely sure what the last line has to do with getting the information across, but he’s more focused on the other four. So is Rocky, pointing at the board with a weird crystal-gun thing that allows him to see. He’s making low, growly noises, not unlike the white noise of the ship. Grace is tense against the wall, and Simon can’t tell if he’s trying not to cry or if he’s making his thinking face.
Simon shifts in his seat, because he doesn’t quite get why it’s such a big deal. People run out of shit all the time, and usually it’s no big deal to get used to it or wait for another restock. Whatever P is, (pipettes? plants? pencils?), he’s thinking it didn’t need this much dramatization.
This one seems serious to them, though, because Rocky is actually still for once and Grace isn’t talking. Simon never talks unless he has to, never found a reason to, but it feels like this quiet is intentional. Are they thinking that hard about this? Usually all the brainstorming is done out loud. Maybe he should’ve made more of an effort to listen, or at least to understand now. The equations on the board don’t make sense, something to do with days and minimums that he can’t read well unless he leans in, but he could probably figure it out.
Grace is used to having to reexplain things to Simon, either due to disbelief, panic, or just a lack of understanding, so SImon isn’t too guilty when he goes to ask for clarification.
“Wait, um,” Simon fumbles with the words. The addition of sharper teeth in his mouth makes it harder to talk, and he swallows before moving on. He waits until Grace looks toward him, shows he’s listening, to continue. “What’s P?”
“Portions.” Grace crosses his arms, glasses drooping from his ear. His voice is quiet, more so than normal. He seems more relaxed, though, like he’s been wanting to say this for a while. “Of. Er. Food.”
Food? The coma slurry?
Rocky is chittering now, high pitched, but the translator isn’t picking up on it. Sometimes he does that, goes too high or too low for the laptop to pick up. It makes Simon’s head hurt. Grace can understand him, though, and he nods, hands making movements that seemingly only he and Rocky get. “I know, I know. I just— I didn’t want him to stop, y’know?”
Him? Simon bristles, straightening from his hunched position. He feels six years old again, the Father and his mother having conversations about things he wasn’t allowed to hear. “Who, me? The fuck did Rocky say?”
It’s a little less nice than what Grace is used to from him, but he doesn’t really enjoy the prospect of them talking about him without him. He knows that they do it, but in front of him? Fucking really?
Grace turns back to him, an expression Simon can’t quite decipher etched onto his face.
“Nothing! I’m just. Well, me and Rocky both, we’re glad that you’re eating his food now.” He doesn’t elaborate, just steps closer to Rocky, who’s still trying to speak.
Something clicks in Simon’s brain, something he should’ve gotten at least partially through Grace’s ramble. He’d been having portions of food as well. Grace didn’t have enough. Since his arrival, the food supply has been draining twice as fast一 because of him.
Grace doesn’t have enough food, because of him.
Grace can tell that Simon is figuring this out, probably because Simon drops his head into his hands, and he says something hurriedly. Simon isn’t listening, though. Muttered apologies, prayers, slip from his mouth but they don’t seem to go anywhere.
I knew there was a catch. There’s always a catch.
He’d been stupid enough to think he could just, what, eat whenever he wanted? That the robot just pulled it out of thin air? Of course not, why would it, why didn’t he think about it? And he’d been fucking hoarding it, too, when it wasn’t even his. The food had been for Grace, enough for Grace only, and he’d gone in and fucking eaten it like the gluttonus monster that he is, and now he’s一
Now he’s一
“How much of Rocky’s food is left?” he says, before he can think about it, head snapping up. He can’t be the reason another being starves, too. Can’t take any more than I had to. A voice echoes the thought distantly, and he realizes it’s his own, louder than he should. Grace takes a step back, and Simon wants to apologize for startling him, but then he’d have to apologize for everything else and, fuck, he doesn’t know if he can handle that. Rocky starts talking before either of them can, though, so he keeps his mouth shut.
“That not problem! Enough for forty Erid crew. Lots lots lots.” The rock is making gestures that look as if they’re meant to be soothing, but all they do is alienate him from Simon even more. He doesn’t understand why they’re not mad at him, why Grace is still writing rather than just giving up now. He doesn’t understand anything. Still, he feels a hint of relief curl up in his stomach at the words, the fact that he isn’t going to lead another person (alien or not) to starvation.
Speaking of which.
“What are you going to do, then?” he turns so he’s facing Grace, whose face has not moved from everything is totally fine but I am going to cry in the next two to five minutes. He glances at the whiteboard again, squints at the writing. “You don’t… it’s not enough.”
“I know,” Grace says, and his voice is small, before he seems to snap himself out of it. “But we’re working on it! Do you remember the taumoeba I mentioned?” he waits until Simon nods, before making a vague gesture to the lab behind them. “Me and Rocky一 well, mostly me, he can’t touch any of it. But, um, me and Rocky are working on making it edible! And the newest batch we made— well, it’s got calories. Not digestible, but. We just gotta fix that within two hundred-ish days of reaching Erid, which. Well. We have a lot of time. Until then.”
He’s trailing off a bit, and Simon wants to die. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, this wasn’t meant to happen. His sharp, sharp nails leave small indents in his palm, trying to keep him grounded. He doesn’t know how to fix this, how to apologize, how to do anything. Words tumble out anyway, even though he’s not sure what they’d do. “I’m sorry, I— I can’t even fucking survive on your food, I was all fucked up, and I took it anyway一”
“Simon, that’s not your fault. We’re gonna get through this. You didn’t even know that you’d changed. It’s fine.” Grace takes a big inhale after that, eyes shut. His arms go up and then he’s clapping his hands. He does this a lot, whenever he’s about to swap topics or get started on something. For what reason, Simon cannot fathom. When he opens his eyes, they’re a little more focused than before, and his smile seems more genuine this time. “We got this. I’ve figured out worse things on a tighter deadline. I’ll be fine.”
Rocky does what Simon has come to learn as jazz hands and they both look so stupidly optimistic that Simon just forces all of his thoughts away and nods. He doesn’t believe them at all, he’s not stupid, but he does it anyway. Lets the positivity wash over him. Maybe they’ll find a hidden cabinet with enough food. Maybe if he cuts off his fin he can cook it, somehow. (Would Grace be able to even eat it?) Maybe if he prays, some of the plants in the room will grace them all with fruit. As if. He doesn’t dare mention these now, though, not when they’re so intent on pretending things are okay.
For a moment more there’s silence, and in that silence looms an ever-growing air of this wouldn’t have fucking happened if Simon wasn’t here. Simon wants to apologize again, but it’s not like it would bring the food he took back.
Everyone here knows it’s your fault.
“So it’s settled!” Grace says, and his voice is back to that there’s a problem and I’m going to solve it tone that he gets whenever an issue comes up. “I’m gonna start doing half rationing for now, but if we don’t make much progress on the taumoeba within the next few months I might switch to less.”
Half rations? Simon can feel his brow furrow, and he’s not sure how to voice his thoughts, that this isn’t a good idea. But Grace has already moved on, already erased the whiteboard. His glasses aren’t even on his face anymore, just sort of dangling off of his chin. Simon looks away.
A pause, then Grace repeats, “We got this. We’ll be fine.”
He sounds, at least, mostly sure of himself.
[]
Grace skips dinner that night, and so does Simon. It’s not out of the blue: Everyone already knew Grace was rationing, and Simon just doesn’t sometimes. He really only needs to eat every other day, because of how fucking rich Rocky’s food is, and he’d feel too guilty besides. The scientist spends the rest of the night doing fuck knows what in the lab, probably working on the ‘taumoeba problem’, as he’s taken to calling it, and Simon lays on his bed trying to sleep. He can’t bring himself to. A useless feeling crawls along his spine, like he should be helping in the other room, should know all about science just like Grace, but he just stays in the dormitory, sleepless. Which is maybe a good thing.
You’d probably end up stealing his sleep, too.
And it’s true, somehow, and he doesn’t know how to feel about it. Stealing everything. His eyes shift, slowly, to where Rocky is across the room in his little enclosure, weaving something or the other out of xenonite. The alien can tell, with his uncanny sense of hearing, that Simon is staring, and stops his work. His body (carapace, it’s a carapace), tilts toward the convict and his arm flicks out, somewhat dismissively.
“Simon sleep. Rocky watch.”
They keep the translator laptop with Simon now, since Grace can mostly understand Rocky without it. It’s on the floor beside his bed and the fake, tinny voice from the speaker makes Simon flinch, just slightly. The command makes him realize just how long he’s been here. It used to be odd when he did manage to sleep well, he was too on edge, but nowadays he’s been getting a full eight hours for multiple nights in a row. He’s gotten used to this life, stupidly, which is probably why something had to go wrong.
He doesn’t know quite what it is, exactly, that made him adjust so quickly. Seeing the stars, brighter than ever, did help, along with the many, many instances of him getting caught doing something 一 rummaging through Grace’s things, trying to give the plants an offering of his own blood (tainted as it was), taking Grace’s quilt and spreading it out fully on the floor一 and not being hurt for it. Maybe a lecture, maybe a question, but usually just a reaction of indifference or a let’s not do that anymore, okay? Not punished for it at all.
In a way, this new situation could be a punishment.
There’s no way it’s not.
You were never meant to escape the rapture. Anything you touch, anything you have an effect on, is going to wither away and rot. This is a punishment.
Why would Grace be punished and not him?
Rocky is still expecting an answer, or for him to pass out, and he wants to use that question. Wants to know what he did wrong.
“Is Grace going to be okay?” he asks instead, because that’s also something he wants to know. Both of them do, probably. The scientist had never lied to him, but there’s always a first time for everything. His voice catches on the last word, rough and hopefully as polite as he wants to come across as. Rocky gives a small hum that the laptop just states as [agreement].
“Grace says taumoeba reacting well to change. Grace will eat taumoeba. Grace fine. Beside, if half ration Grace can live until Erid and then longer.” The response is flat, because of the computerized voice, but Simon can hear the notes wavering underneath, a chordal vibrato. Nervousness, restlessness. Rocky just starts up with his xenonite again, pulling at the strands like one would a sweater, and Simon imagines it all unraveling. Bit by bit. Grace, the quilt, the ship, him, all of it.
He knows Grace isn’t the aggressive type, but hunger changes people.
First time for everything.
“Sure.”
Rocky must sense something in his tone, because he settles back down. His tone is a bit steadier, arms gaining speed yet staying silent一 Simon wishes something in the ship would make noise. Something natural, at least. The alien just makes another untranslatable sound. “Pleasant night. Rocky will watch Simon sleep.”
Simon turns around, forcing his eyes shut, and tries not to think of Grace, or food, or anything of the sort. He can start trying to help tomorrow. For now, Rocky will get frustrated if he doesn’t at least try to sleep.
It takes four full prayer recitations, not the quick shit he does to get it out of the way, to start feeling drowsy. Another half-hearted attempt at reciting it to fall asleep.
His dreams are plagued with mouths, sharp and small, large and dull, pulling pulling pulling at him like hunks of meat.