Chapter Text
It felt strange to have resurfaced. Years mapping the bottom of a blood ocean in nothing but a rusted metal box had trained his body to a certain sway, a certain belief that at any moment his world would tip over under his feet. Even the times he’d been allowed to rest outside of the SM-13, the feeling of an orbiting starship had a similar tilt to it. In many moments when he’d just closed his eyes, the two places would blur into one. The blood, the smell of iron, the unending, stale heat. At least on the Consolidation of Iron's ship it’d been cold, not that it was an improvement. His mind still shifted in the sway of space and ocean, caught forever in its hold. Many times, he hadn’t thought he’d ever be free. Many times, he hadn’t thought he’d survive.
The COI commander that had tossed Simon into the monotonous job had clearly expected him to die. Even with her various agreements with him that he’d be able to go home, get a clean record, be allowed to fully leave, Ava had not lost that look of surprise each time they un-welded the hatch and saw him looking back out at them. The ocean was said to be cursed, said to house something evil and incomprehensible. Skeleton faces filled Simon’s lone screen as he took picture after picture, the hollows of eyes staring at him, judging. They made him dream of teeth, of fangs dripping venom and an ocean that boiled with ten-thousand screams. Even on Ava’s ship, there was little reprieve. The teeth simply followed him, dogged his heels and haunted his mind, ever waiting to bite.
Two years of nightmares both asleep and awake, and now Simon was thrust back onto solid ground. A drifting colony was nothing more than a collection of salvaged ships braced together, but free from any planet’s pull, there was no swaying, no adjusting of balance mid-step. The air was dry and not too cold; while old, the cobbled-together streets were clean of rust. It was breathtakingly normal, a place where humans gathered despite their affiliations, or perhaps where they forgot Eden or the COI existed to rule them. These people were free in a way Simon envied, their lives adrift with the tide of space, and here he stood amongst them, still lost at sea.
His hand braced on a wall, Simon closed his eyes, tried to imagine the metal under his hands was familiar, grounding. He never thought he’d miss the piece of shit submarine that was almost his tomb, but here he was, expecting the SM-13 to appear before him, fully formed and waiting, shifting with the blood water below it. At least in that deathbox he would have his balance, he thought grimly, hating himself for missing anything that had to do with the COI, with Ava, with that fucking mission to find scraps of answers in a place designed only to kill.
He grit his teeth and reminded himself that he’d at least gotten what he wanted. As much as he hated the COI and what they stood for, they did value human life, at least in regards to the dwindling population. Ava had cooperated as long as he had, but Simon had never fully shaken the idea that she wanted him dead, and that every time he came up alive, it was disappointing to her and her crew. In her eyes, he was just a convict, a murderer. She hadn’t even bothered to learn his name.
The memory was a bitter one, but bolstering. Two years ago, he had been all she’d thought he was. Two years ago, he wasn’t worth his own name. He wasn’t worth the life he was due. At least he could say he’d earned his name back.
All he had to show for it was a missing left arm and dreams full of ghosts, the clothes on his back and a tablet. His identity had been scrubbed clean like a crumpled paper flattened back out, forever altered, forever marked with scars. A missing arm was perhaps a small price to pay for freedom, but staring out now at what was left of his species, he wondered if Ava had actually gotten the last laugh. The COI had spat him out the moment he was no longer of use, but that truth was double edged. Surely Eden too would not welcome him home as he was?
The Father had turned them into soldiers in order to feed the Last Tree. Turning humans into fertilizer had been his life for so long, he’d lost track of the endless lives he’d bloodied his hands with. He was their Butcher, or he had been. He doubted he could hold a gun now without shaking, and that meant he’d be just as useless to his own Brothers as he was to Ava, easy fodder for compost. Death was freedom, but not what he wanted. He hadn’t fought through hell to stay alive only to die, had he?
The dream of going home was a hard one to let go of after depending on it to survive for so long. It had roots that wrapped between his ribs and into his bones; digging them out left him in exhausted agony. Simon knew he deserved to die, just as he knew that being killed to feed the Last Tree was an honor. If he were a better Brother of Eden, he’d go home simply to surrender, to make the Father proud one last time.
If Simon had been a better Brother, he wouldn’t be standing here, a fresh chance in his grasp. He’d tried to sabotage the mission that had killed his Brothers and had earned him Ava’s torture. Those that had survived the destruction of Filament Station would not have forgotten him so readily. Going home would just give them an easier target.
So… he needed a new home. How did one even do such a thing, he wondered? He’d been dropped into Eden as a child, with no need to do anything but comply. Home was brotherhood and a line of tallies scratched onto the wall by his bunk, his own account of his kills. He’d been a prolific murderer; it’d been enough to allow him to stay.
Simon sighed and slid down the wall, his legs splaying before him over the gritty floor. Cleaner bots would be there soon to sweep him out of the alley with the rest of the debris, and he’d be lost again, without anchor in this sea of humankind. Could he somehow make a home here? What could he offer these people that had no need of butchery and penance? Hell, he didn’t even know the name of this colony or where it was in the vast emptiness of space. Shouldn’t a home be rooted under him, a place that called to his soul? Had he ever had such a place?
The sealed resin disk on his wrist glinted as it caught the nearest streetlight, the sprouted seed forever frozen in time. Knowing something so small could grow into something so massive had been a thread of hope in his life, that perhaps his own existence could mean something, even if he barely left a mark. There’d been peace to knowing he’d be buried in soil, where roots would grind his skeleton to meal. He didn’t have that anymore; he wanted life. He had it. So what could he do with it?
Ava had brought him to this colony, which meant that he’d be accessible to her. She knew he was here, and if she ever needed a sacrificial lamb again, he’d be easy for her to find. On the flipside, those Brothers that had escaped Filament Station might be seeking him out too, a bullet in each gun with his name carved into the side. He knew better than the COI how easily his Brothers could move about space, hopping rides hidden on transport ships and in cargo holds. Even if this colony was within COI jurisdiction, it wouldn’t stop Eden from easing into the crowds, hidden within faces like all other faces here.
Hiding was simple. It was the finding of a good hiding place that was the problem. Simon watched the pendant revolve slowly in the light, stilling as it found its center. He moved his hand to cup it to his palm, a smooth worry stone. His personal disk had been taken from him by the COI and his Eden tattoo burned off his neck. Finding this seed pendant in the SM-13 had felt like a blessing, even if it meant a Brother before him had perished without seeing the ghost light of stars again. Had that Brother held his pendant just like this, wondering about home and what it meant to be alive?
The street lamp flickered above. Towards the end of the alley, a sweeper droid kicked on, its droning noise overloud in Simon’s ears. Holding the seedling close, he found his feet, felt his body overcorrect to compensate for a movement no longer there, and stepped out of the light.
People milled about him, heads down and focused on whatever it was that humans did on drifter colonies. Simon pulled his hood over his head and did his best to disappear within its shade, his body finding an ease he didn’t feel as training kicked in. Soon, he was just a cloaked figure in a river of cloaked figures, one of the many, faceless and unimportant. The street widened as he walked, with too-bright neon buzzing over darkened doors. Faded posters and graffiti lined the walls of each structure, as though the blooms of color were part of the architecture. Life persisted, it seemed to announce, proud because it existed at all. Life continued on as long as people did too.
Simon was one of them, yet apart. What did these humans see in the shadows of his face? Could they detect the killer Eden had made of him? Could they see the ghosts gifted to him by the COI’s damned blood moon? He’d been trained to walk like a person that had never killed another, but never trained to simply be himself. He was a weapon, a beast, a creature out of place. How was it these people couldn’t sense the wolf amongst the sheep?
“Japchae! Japchae!” A haggard voice pierced through his thoughts, the hum of the crowd. Simon was not the only one to ease into a new direction, as though drawn in by gravity. A withered old woman stood at a noodle stall, ladling the glass noodles and dark broth into disposable bowls. The headiness of its aroma promised a meal handmade, not replicated, and Simon’s stomach was practically eating itself as he wiggled through the line. The woman looked him over, then held out a gnarled hand. “Two coppers.”
Simon dug for the money. It wasn’t a lot, but more than he could afford. Ava hadn't given him much by way of pay, which only gave further credence to her wanting him stranded where she could find him. Still, he passed over the copper marks without protest, then accepted the bowl in turn with a low bow of his head. “Gamsahamnida.”
The word came to him the way a shadow snuck up on its owner, suddenly drug up from memory and air. Even his voice was a shock to his ears. Somewhere in the weary rasp was himself. He set the bowl down for a moment to take some chopsticks and realized his hand was shaking. Setting the sticks between his teeth, he shuffled off to a nearby table. It was small, cramped, but private. He heaved onto the tall seat and set the bowl down, all the more eager as the steam curled upwards.
As he worked through the noodles, his ears stayed alert. People laughing, bartering, calling their wares - the din of humans in an alien place. He thought of the communal dining room he’d once shared with his Brothers, pressed in on all sides, laughter and bickering in the air. For a moment, he nearly choked on a bite, given the sudden lump in his throat. He swallowed past it, forced it down. There’d be none of that again, he told himself firmly and forcefully emptied his mind to everything but the sound of life around him, the taste of hot, real noodles in his mouth. He hadn’t had real food in two years and he was determined to savor it.
He was halfway through the bowl when his gaze wandered to a nearby announcement board. Ads flashed over various screens, crackly and green, hard to read as the connection sizzled and jumped. Low Rent, Premium Space! said one. Marriage Visa, Easy Out! was another. He blinked at that, snorting around a mouthful. Marriage visas, he’d nearly forgotten the COI had implemented such a thing. It’d started as a way to get people to procreate and add to the population. Now it was more a way to get somewhere else, anywhere else, even if it meant legally binding oneself to another person.
One of his Brothers had hacked into the COI interwebs and pulled up a few. They’d all laughed at the time, amused that their most hated enemy was desperate enough to force people together. And they dared call themselves democratic.
Simon rolled his eyes and refocused on the delicious meal. He lifted the bowl to swallow down every last drop, and for a moment after could just sit there in the bliss that only real food could grant. A satisfied belly was an odd feeling after so long being half starved, and already his body was demanding more. Ignoring the pang with ease, he laid the chopsticks over the bowl and bowed his head by instinct, catching himself halfway through. He sighed. Old habits died hard, he supposed, but at least they did die.
The bin was by the board. He tossed the reusable trash just as the screens flashed, a silent laugh at his expense. Marriage Visa, Easy Out! taunted him again. He adjusted his hood and caught the pendant as it swung with the momentum, worrying it with his thumb, eyes caught on the green, marbly screen. When the idea came to his mind, whispering amongst the ghosts already there, he almost wanted to laugh. The ad boasted that the COI system of marriage visas was unparalleled, and reached broadly over all human colonies within a certain range, a small wiggling hope that he could get far away indeed. Of course, using the COI’s interwebs would be traceable, even with a scrubbed identity. Simon doubted a visa would stop Ava, just as much as he doubted it’d stop Eden.
Even more, he doubted he had it in him to even be a husband. He had no idea what husbands did; it wasn’t like there were training manuals for matrimony. Tying himself to some random person out in the universe could very well be just as much a prison as what he’d just freed himself from. He was no one of worth, or importance. His skills were killing, not nurturing, and his tastes in people skewed opposite to what the COI no doubt would require. If the goal was children, then a man who only wanted another man was not a good fit.
He stepped away as people pushed by, returned to the little high table and seat. He had nowhere to go or anyone to care enough to welcome him back and now, here he sat, considering a marriage visa of all things. How lowering.
Grunting to himself, Simon wiggled free the tablet Ava had given him as some kind of parting gift. It was an old model and slow as a dead man’s pulse. It hummed valiantly as he tapped it to life and connected to the interweb after a minute of buffering. Once more, Simon’s eyes lifted to the ad, then back to the tablet. Before, with Eden, he’d have had to hack in to see such a page. Now, he had free rein of what the COI allowed their people to see. He wasn’t surprised as the first page loaded with propaganda top to bottom, turning the screen a dark, throbbing blue. He made a face.
At least the old tablet couldn’t judge his own halting typing. Even with two hands, he’d been an average typist with little finesse with a keyboard. Typing now had reduced to poking the screen with his index finger, one letter at a time. His jaw was tight as he got the words out - marriage visa - and shook out his hand as it buffered. The new page wasn’t nearly as blue with panels praising the COI, with text blocked in with the plain boredom all legal sites tended to have. Curious despite himself, Simon slowly scrolled, reading it through. To his surprise, it wasn’t hard to get a visa whatsoever. People who wanted a mail order spouse simply paid a broker to send out the ad through various channels and once a connection was found, the visa was only a matter of filling out forms and signing with his thumbprint.
Simple. Too simple. Simon read it again, eyes narrowed critically, trying to suss out any hidden traps or loopholes. Not finding any, Simon trusted it even less. Nothing the COI allowed in was so straightforward. There had to be a catch somewhere.
He swiped to the side and the screen went static as the tablet tried to load. A list of forms and profiles appeared one by one, stamped into existence against the screen. Most were personnel headshots, professional and lifeless. Others moved in a short cycle, a flash of smile, a glow of eyes winking up at him. He scrolled by those with a wrinkled nose.
What was he even doing? Shouldn’t he be looking into housing? He had nowhere to go but here and the money would only stretch so far. Anxiety filled his chest, tight and uncomfortable, but still he slowly scrolled, watching the profiles pop up as they loaded, a parade of grim faces. At least those were honest, he supposed. No one had a reason for joy when under the thumb of the COI.
The further down he went, the farther the coordinates reached. Soon, a profile popped up for a planet called Erid, in the 40 Eridani system. Simon tried to recall ever learning of such a place, but came up short. His schooling had been basic, with no reason to bother with faraway places that weren’t marks. Still, he wondered. Did Erid have its own star? Or had it too faded with all the others? Just how vastly had the Quiet Rapture reached?
The picture was a man with a haunted look on his face. He looked as though his picture had been taken under duress, which Simon could appreciate, even if that expression made his stomach churn. He was handsome in a messy kind of way, with a flop of blond hair that fell into his eyes. Glasses obscured most of the irises, but the hint of lightness was there. Blue, if Simon had to guess, or green.
He tapped the picture and waited for the full profile to generate. He expected tired legal jargon to match that scared, resigned face. That was not what was written whatsoever.
Dr. Ryland Grace, molecular biologist, teacher, savior of Erid, was how it started. Simon’s eyebrow raised. Savior? If he was so heroic, why would he have to resort to slapping an ad into the universe for a visa-wife? Best friend to the Eridians. Needs a kind, good mate. Will accept no one bad. All applicants will be screened thoroughly. Only the best for Grace. No Marks allowed.
Simon snorted, his amusement returning. Had a child written this? The profile didn’t mention children, but the abrupt, enthusiastic sentences lent themselves well to someone young and exuberant. Perhaps it was one of this Dr. Grace’s students? The thought was oddly warming, thinking of a coalition of little people putting their beloved teacher onto a marriage website without his knowledge. He wondered if that was the case, or if Dr. Grace had left it to them altogether, probably because it amused him as much as it amused Simon now.
There was a correspondence code written at the bottom. After a minute’s hesitation, Simon tapped it and watched the screen shimmer with code before settling on a blank page, ready and waiting. It was unsettling, and for a moment more his hand flexed around the seedling, worrying over the smooth resin, before letting it go. It slid across the tablet screen as he slowly began to type.
Dear Dr. Grace, or friend of Dr. Grace,
How does one save a whole planet? And what could a hero possibly want in a mate?
A curious reader
It was simple, silly; certainly a waste of time. He sent it along, not expecting much. If this Dr. Grace really was so heroic, then he probably had hundreds of eager ladies frothing at the mouth to get into his pants. Simon’s odd inquiry would probably pass unnoticed, as it should. He was hardly wife material, anyway.
As such, he began tucking the tablet away under his cloak when it buzzed. A message, already? He blinked but set it back on the table and waited for the screen to settle. Under the message he’d poked in was another. Perhaps his message was simply short enough to merit a quick answer?
Reader -
Grace help Rocky save stars. Save Erid.
Simon’s heart just about stopped. Save stars? Did that mean they’d somehow figured out why the stars were dying? Or had something else happened? He palmed the medallion again, felt its reassuring weight, and read on.
Grace lonely. Grace only human on Erid. Grace needs good human mate.
That meant Simon was conversing with an alien, not a child. He shook his head, wondering how his life had turned so far upside down so quickly, before tapping his reply.
Rocky -
Does he even know you are trying to help him find a mate?
Simon doubted it, but sent it anyway, thumb sliding over the seedling until the tablet vibrated once again. The answer, when it loaded, startled a laugh out of him. He glanced around, hoping no one heard his sudden outburst, and hunched around the tablet, ears burning.
Reader -
Grace trusts Rocky. Rocky find a good mate for Grace.
That wasn’t necessarily a no, or a yes. Simon snorted, charmed regardless. It seemed this alien held Dr. Grace dear. Hopefully the man wasn’t too out of the loop that he wouldn’t expect it when a wife suddenly appeared at his door.
Either way, it wasn’t Simon’s problem, was it?
Rocky -
Dr. Grace is lucky to have you as a friend. I know what it’s like to be alone. Take care of him and good luck with the mate search.
You can call me Simon.
It felt strange, giving his name away to some alien who knew where in the galaxy, but dishonest not to. Rocky would be the first to get his name with its clean record, and oddly it felt right. Simon shook his head and stood, not bothering to tuck away the tablet as it buzzed barely three steps from the table. He ducked through the crowded street and found another alley lit by a lamppost, the light casting over various old crates and barrels. He sat on what had probably once been an ammo depository, but was now a sturdy seat under him, and balanced the tablet on his thighs.
Simon -
Rocky Grace best of friends. Rocky will find best mate for Grace.
Simon lonely too?
The word felt too small to hold the emptiness in his heart. He tried to think of just when the void had appeared, so heavy and cold, only to realize it’d been there from the start of his memory. He sighed at his own doom and gloom, but it was hard to shake off. It felt like he’d been alone all his life, even when he’d been surrounded by his Brothers. He’d asked too many questions when they did not, and when he’d drenched himself in blood to make up for his uncertainty, he’d only distanced himself further. To them, he was just a hand to hold a gun, a shovel for a grave. Perhaps that’s all he really was, a tool to be used until it was too broken to be useful anymore. Even Ava had forced him into the SM-13 over and over until the blood had broken through and infected his arm that had to be amputated to stop the spread. That had been his final dive, then she’d dumped him here with the rest of the trash.
Lonely. He turned that over in his head, in his heart, trying to understand how it was simply not enough for what he felt. Was it mere loneliness when it was a part of him, a cavern around his soul?
Rocky, he wrote, throat tense with a silent scream clawing upwards, I’ve been alone for a long time.
The answer took longer than the others had, long enough Simon had half a thought to give up and try to find somewhere to sleep. He needed to take stock of his money and look for a job, he knew, though what he could do outside of killing, he still hadn’t figured out.
Rocky, it seemed, found it simple. Very simple.
Simon come to Erid. Simon no more lonely, it read, as if it really were that easy. Simon’s smile grew crooked as another line popped up: coordinates to Erid, most likely… and a familiar bundle of legal papers to get a marriage visa.
Dr. Grace needs a good mate, he wrote back, finding it harder and harder to swallow. And aren’t you supposed to screen applicants thoroughly before sending them the visa?
Rocky screened very thoroughly, was the rather haughty answer. Simon good record.
It was cheating, of course. Rocky had no way to know it was a false record to screen. If Simon were a better man, he’d tell them so. He wouldn’t have written in the first place. He was a convict, a murderer. He had no place with a hero who saved a planet.
He was about to tell Rocky as much before he remembered Dr. Grace’s photo. Haunted, panicked, afraid. He’d saved a planet, but had he had a choice? Or was he more like Simon, forced to do things for the betterment of humanity? He was a good enough man to help Erid. would Simon have done the same if their places were reversed?
Choice. He had never had much choice in his life. His mother had given him to the Father and Eden, and he’d been raised in their doctrine simply because it’s what all boys and girls in Eden learned. He became a killer to feed the trees, because it was his orders. His only true choice had been to sabotage the Filament Station mission, to stop his Brothers from destroying it and killing everyone inside. It’d still blown up, despite his efforts, and he had paid the price once the COI had gotten hold of him. Choices were costly, dangerous. Choices were a risk. He’d miscalculated before; what if it all blew up in his face yet again?
Why consider it at all? He didn’t know Dr. Grace or Rocky. He didn’t know where Erid was or how to save stars. He was a one handed convict who even the COI had deemed worthless. Dr. Grace was a teacher, a scientist. He was adored and loved. Simon was nothing, who owed them nothing. That wouldn’t change.
So he wrote back, declining the visa even if it was all he’d need to get a new start. He’d only taint the goodness, he knew that, and now Rocky would know it too. It was the truth of Simon, what made him up, blunt and cruel. Hope simply was not for people like him, nor was love, or kindness. He craved fairness in a universe that only took and took, and still felt hurt at the burn. Hope therefore did not favor him, and meant he had nothing more to give. He never would.
And the sooner he remembered that, the better.