Chapter Text
The worst part about it, Simon thinks, is that when his skin starts to slough off, it’s replaced by a film of blood. And when that starts, the line of demarcation that separates what was strictly him and strictly other starts to fade. Even when his left arm detaches with an uneven rip and the voice in his head stops being his voice, he still hopes there’s a way to distill his real self from the sludge.
Simon subscribes to the idea that people get what they deserve as a consequence of their actions. Something along the lines of karma. It brings a sense of closure, and he’ll take closure where he can get it. With that, Simon submits himself to the notion he’s getting exactly what he deserves. This is how it’s going to end - with him blindly slinging an axe in a battle for unsatisfying gulps of metallic air, fumbling around the dark for a line that used to exist.
It’s the same thing every day, but not once does it feel repetitive. His two-year anniversary of touching down on Erid has come and passed, and to say Grace loves his life would be underplaying it. He worries he’s going to wake up under the unreadable gaze of Eva Stratt and Rocky was just an elaborate figment of his imagination, but those nightmares are becoming fewer and farther between.
It’s a beautiful foggy morning, like they have been recently. Grace pulls the door open, flooding the room with the grey light of dawn, and
There’s a human body on the shoreline.
Huh.
Grace retreats and presses his back against the closed door.
A few possibilities bump around in his mind like those old screensavers, and he’s anxiously waiting for one to hit a corner. His best theory so far is that he’s simply not awake yet. He wonders if the morning coffee would help, but he can’t kid himself - it hasn’t been coffee in a long time. But what’s the alternative? That another human popped into existence within the biodome? What in the universe?
Universe, because the only way this is possible is if you make the possibilities infinite.
But it feels impossible, and even more impossible still is the slight twinge of disappointment he feels about not being the only human anymore. He didn’t realize he was capable of being territorial at a time like this.
On the count of three, he opens the door just enough to fit his head.
It’s still there.
Or, maybe Grace should say he. He’s 30 yards (27 meters) or so away from the house, lying on his left side. There’s a nose, a furrowed brow, and wavy black hair matted to his face with… blood!? If he weren’t laying in a fluorescent-red pool, it’d look almost peaceful, like he's curled in on himself in sleep. The waves rhythmically washing over the body distracts Grace for a moment.
This is real, isn’t it?
If an Eridian noticed, someone would’ve said something, right? Is he hallucinating? Has the CO2 been building up in the atmosphere or what!?
He tugs on his shoes, stepping on the heels, and sets out. Hopefully by the time he reaches him, Grace will decide if he wants this stranger to be alive or not. It seems harsh, but he can’t decide which scenario (alive body or dead body) is “better”.
The stranger comes into sharper focus.
It’s grotesque. He’d say nightmarish, but he’s never had a nightmare like this one. His heart is hammering so hard, each beat feels like that one time he got into a car accident, making the whole world seem off-kilter and at a bad frame rate.
Upon closer inspection, it’s not uniformly slick blood that’s covering him, but a layer of something congealed and stringy. The waves did decent work cleaning below the knees, but everything above that is caked in organic material. Grace is hesitant to declare the substance as blood until it can be sampled, but the warm, metallic smell is undeniable, and he can almost taste it in the back of his throat.
The stranger is breathing so soft and shallow, it’s as though he has a finite number of breaths left to ration. It’s a pretty bad metaphor considering it may be the truth. Grace kneels down and presses his fingers into the man’s wrist, digging around tendons and bone until he feels it - the soft, steady pulse of something that is alive.
The stranger’s right hand is lightly curled around an axe that's covered in a similar substance. Grace unwraps the stranger’s clammy, calloused hand from the handle, depositing the… weapon? Tool? Off to the side.
“Hey!” Grace grabs hold of his shoulder and gives a rough shove. “HEY. WAKE UP.” There’s no response. He wets his hands and uses that to wipe off the stranger's face, thinking it would give a clue as to his identity. But he remains a stranger. Grace positions himself to the other side, and cradling his head, flops him onto his back. The film is slick and oily, and Grace apologizes for using his long hair as a grip.
This guy is heavy.
He wishes he knew something practical, like how to set up a fireman’s carry, but dragging is all he’s capable of. Hooking his arms underneath the stranger’s, he pushes upward with all his might, but between Erid’s gravity and the stranger’s dead weight, he loses purchase on the stranger’s left side. He falls with the momentum to avoid injury to either of them, stepping back to rethink his approach. And he can’t believe he didn’t notice it earlier because it seems so obvious now, but the stranger’s left arm is missing. What he previously assessed to be a limb was actually a large clump of coagulated blood. Nothing but a stump and Grace’s own anatomical knowledge suggests anything used to be there.
Grace screams.
“GRACE WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT QUESTION!?” It feels like solidarity to see someone as freaked-out as he is. There’s an overlap of noise from a handful of Eridians talking over each other, and Rocky becomes a familiar, grounding presence.
“I don’t know! Fuck, I don’t know, Rock! It’s obviously a human, but-”
“How is that possible!?”
“Don’t look at me, how am I supposed to know? But help me carry him. Please, he doesn’t look good. If we don’t get him to Armando…” He tries to assume his previous position, but Rocky anticipates this and grabs his shirt.
“I don’t want to touch him, and you shouldn’t either!”
“You’re in a xenonite suit for… crying out loud! You’re gonna be fine. I’m the one who actually has to…” His stomach flips uncomfortably, and he swallows the bile down. He dares a look at his hands - blood and saltwater have dried tacky on his skin. It’s underneath his nails, collecting in the lines of his palm, and oxidizing into a muddy brown. Grace takes a deep breath. “I’m the one who actually has to put his hands on him."
“Grace wear PPE.”
“Since when did we have PPE?”
“There’s a lab, stupid! Just- get something. Any barrier. Linens!” He suggests as the other brave Eridians collect around the figure, experimentally hoisting him upward.
“This is really time sensitive, bud!”
“I will watch him sleep. If it’s so time-sensitive, go NOW.” Ugh, this guy! But Rocky has a point, like he often does. His skin itches at all the points of contact. Grace runs back.
Tangled in blood and bedsheets, they haul the stranger into Grace’s home, depositing him in Armando’s range, and the robot wastes no time getting to work once prompted. Grace takes a moment, studying the stranger’s peaceful face being delicately wiped clean.
“It’s a big big big secret for now. Maybe not for long. Unsure who else heard the commotion.” Rocky says. “Nobdy knows what to make of this development. It will be difficult to explain.” He studies Grace as he peels off blood-soaked clothes. The scientist takes a look at himself in the mirror, and between his expression and the red smeared on his jawline, it looks like he lost a battle.
“Yeah.” He sighs. “We know a thing or two about secrets.”
“Clean off and try to rest. It’s a lot to witness.” He sees his reflection nodding but doesn’t feel it.
A few hours later, having bathed and changed into clean clothes, Grace goes back for the axe. Unsure how it would tolerate Erid’s atmosphere, the scientists left it where it was. He has the foresight to grab it with a towel. There’s a strange man in the living room and ruined clothes as tangible evidence of the morning’s events, but the wood of the handle is what makes this whole thing real. It feels alive with something.
That night, he sleeps deeply under Rocky's watch.
“Eye movement detected.” The automated voice is correct, and he scolds himself for his carelessness. Ideally, he’d subtly come into the world of the living before alerting any other party. His thoughts are disjointed, and pain is coursing through his body, but his sense of self-preservation is innate. “What’s two plus two?” He feigns sleep.
“No answer detected. What’s two plus two?” It’s not going to give up, is it. Opening his eyes to a dim room, he attempts to prop himself up on his elbows. He swipes at the air instead and falls against the bed with a groan. The heart-rate monitor voices his confusion.
“What is two plus two?” It demands.
Footsteps. Distant, muffled speech.
He needs to move. Now.
He grits his teeth, biting and yanking at any line that keeps him tethered. His left arm is decidedly absent. He doesn't have time to be shocked. Blood dribbles out of his former IV sites, and if the alarm is anything to go by, the machine is very unhappy about him ripping the electrodes off his chest. There’s a ceiling-mounted robot arm tracking his movements, and he gets the sense he’s disappointed it somehow. He gives a yank to the catheter but meets resistance. Tracing the line, he unclips the collection bag and attaches it to himself.
Free.
It’s a makeshift clinic. The room appears to be a living area, and his bed and medical equipment occupies a corner. In his quick sweep, there is a staggering amount of lab equipment, machinery, and mess that occupies the room. Nothing offers clues as to his location. Nothing offers itself as cover, there are no places to run-
His bare feet hit the cold floor and at the same time, the door swings open.
“Gosh, that thing is so annoying.” A man with casual clothing enters. Too casual. So casual it makes a 180, and it’s suspicious again. This man ignores him, making a straight line toward the monitors, silencing them. At that same panel, he sends the disapproving arm away.
They look at each other for the first time. At least for Simon.
“Hey there.” The stranger says.
The first thing Simon’s traitorous brain thinks is that this man has the kindest eyes he’s ever seen. There’s nothing about the particular shape or color that lends him this impression, but maybe the vulnerability in his expression. His blue-grey eyes are so clear, it’s like he can see straight into his head, and there's nothing in there but grace.
“Who are you?” His voice is broken and dry from disuse.
“It’s okay. You’re okay.”
“Answer me.” The other man shrinks inward, his expression warped with worry.
“I’m not gonna hurt you.” This strange man says, with a soft voice and his weird T-shirt and his matching set of arms. He reaches forward, placing a hand on his shoulder, and all at once, Simon is thinking about every way this stranger could kill him. Simon has lived this long, and by God, that is not going to be undone because he was fooled by a kind facade and a soft bed. The idea that he’s made a grave error has taken root, overriding any critical thinking he might have once used.
He slaps the stranger's hand away and surges forward to shove him, aiming at his sternum. Simon marches forward, forcing the other to stumble backwards over debris to maintain the distance between them. The stranger’s back hits the wall, and he’s really blubbering now, his kind eyes rimmed with tears and panic.
Simon won’t fall for it.
Am I really being threatened by a guy with his pee bag attached to his gown? Grace thinks, and the answer is a resounding YES. When he woke up, he felt like a baby deer, and it took days of fading in and out of consciousness to accumulate enough strength to move. Baby deer may still be generous. He’s a leaky, floppy space blob staring down the barrel of a gun.
Grace didn’t even break up fights at school! Though, he doubts that skill would transfer if he had it, judging by the confidence in his adversary’s movements. The look in his eye says he has nothing to lose. Who is this guy, seriously?
“Woah, hey man, take it easy-” His back hits the wall, and he finds his hands flying to either side of his head. The stranger twists a handful of his shirt in his grip. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t fucking touch me.”
“You’re right. I won’t touch you again. I’m sorry. I should’ve-”
“Where am I? You’re with the C.O.I? Those bastards. What are they playing at? Haven’t I done enough already?” His words are laced with something desperate.
“C.O.I?”
“Cut the shit.” He says it like Grace is stupid.
“I have absolutely no clue what you’re talking about.”
“Grace!?” Rocky is standing in the doorway, doing the Eridian equivalent of having his hackles raised. “This is normal human behavior, question?”
“What the fuck!?” In between one breath and the next, Grace’s back is no longer against the wall but against the stranger’s front. He claws uselessly at the arm locked around his neck. It’s enough pressure to render him incapable of speech, but not enough to kill him. Maybe. Hopefully.
When he fantasized about human touch, it didn’t look like this.
“Grace? GRACE? Status update. Bad bad bad!” And the panic in Rocky’s notes is enough to make him crumble. He tries to form words, but all that comes out are sounds of struggle. He can’t stand the thought of Rocky being scared, but no amount of thrashing would achieve anything.
“Is that a goddamn alien?”
“This is not normal human behavior, statement! ♬♮♪♩♬! Why is ♪♫♮ happening!?” Rocky skitters out of the room, and there’s the distant sound of things being toppled. All he can do now is trust his best friend to not abandon him here. Distracted, the stranger had loosened his hold.
“Please!” Grace strains. “Let me explain-”
“Shut up.”
“Here! LOOK. LOOK. LOOK!” Rocky’s voice ricochets around the room, and out of the corner of his eye, Grace sees it. A circular resin pendant with an oxidizing silver border, a leaf suspended in the center, pinched between Rocky’s claws. The room is swallowed up by an uneasy silence.
“How did you get that.” The stranger whispers. He almost sounds normal.
“High value object! Exchange!” Grace would sigh in relief if he could. Rocky fix, always. The stranger makes a move toward the pendant and Rocky inches backward. He shakes his body no, and points a spare claw at Grace.
“Oh.” The stranger says. “You want this guy.” Rocky enthusiastically nods.
“Affirmative noise. You pick up faster than Grace did.”
“You- you understand me?”
“Jingle jingle. Pay attention.” Rocky shakes the pendant. It catches nicely on the light.
“How do I know you’re gonna go through?” Rocky slides the pendant across the floor. It rolls on its edge until it bounces off the stranger’s bare foot. The stranger regards Grace. Or at the very least, the back of Grace’s head. And he allows his victim to slip away with heaving breaths and saliva pooling in his mouth. Grace stumbles away, Rocky running to meet him, and the stranger takes his pendant and runs towards the light.
“What would I do without you?” Rocky circles him, getting a detailed image of his body.
“Status update. Now. Statement. Talk to me.”
“I’m alright. Just alright.”
“New human is violent. Should have restrained like I suggested.”
“I know, ‘you told me so’. It’s too late for that now. Come on, we shouldn’t let him get far.”
“You want to FOLLOW him?” Rocky blocks his path. “He is only 1.9 meters away from home. Establish distance! He has proven himself.”
“Rocky, I think I can reason with him.” If Rocky had eyebrows, he’d raise one.
“You’re stupid, statement. Rocky suggests euthanasia.”
“No! Oh my God, no! Was that supposed to be a joke?” He collapses to his knees, grabbing onto Rocky’s arms. He’s touched that Rocky would consider something like that for him. The very same thought makes his stomach turn. He whispers as though the stranger is still in earshot: “Rocky, I’m not going to let you kill him, are you crazy?”
“It’s not an unreasonable suggestion.”
“To you. The reason he got so mad at me was my fault. I did something humans shouldn’t do. Even if I didn’t, it’s worth giving him leniency. He’s scared.”
“You’re going to get yourself killed. ♪♫♮ , Grace!” Rocky paces across the room. “I… know you miss humans. I’m not trying to take this away.” Grace's reflex is to deny this, but he finds himself snapping his mouth closed. Nothing gets past Rocky, and now’s not any different.
“I didn’t think you were. I just have reason to believe this is a bad first impression. And if I don’t figure out how he got here, it’s going to kill me, seriously. It’s worth making him an ally.” Rocky gives this consideration.
“I also wonder, but I wouldn’t risk you for that information.”
“Please?”
“Fine. You are human expert on human behavior. And I feel like I can’t talk you out of this. I follow. If this spare human does ANYTHING.” Grace uses Rocky as a crutch to help him stand up.
“Time go.”
The front door is open, beams of daylight cutting across the room. The wind jostles charms and chimes, painting the scene with delicate sound. As Rocky promised, the stranger is a short distance from the entrance, frozen. Rocky clings to his pants leg, even as Grace descends the steps, noisily clearing his throat to signal their presence. Tears streak down the stranger’s handsome face, staining the front of his med-bay gown. Grace stands a bit father than arm's reach.
“This is real, isn’t it?” The stranger says after a while.