Chapter Text
"Don't leave me alone," Simon's voice cracks, the remains of 'his' vocal cords choke in the stump of 'his' neck. In front of him the screen draws blanks, failing to buffer. "Catherine... ?" Lines repeat. Failing to bring her consciousness back to the screen - the screen flickers off. "Catherine?"
"Catherine?"
Silence. She's gone.
She's gone.
"Catherine?" He whispers, the tightness in his throat doesn't hold it back - and that tears that might just start flowing can't - he has no eyes. With the mangled remains of his left arm he reaches out. The remains of twisted bone and torn muscle barely reach the panel with the activation switch - his right reaches to the screen. "No, no no no no, don't leave me alone."
The abyssal tones return, faint currents roll across what remains of the Omega Space gun and the dome's cage - well rusted joints grind and cry around him - still stuck in the pilot seat.
"This isn't funny, Catherine." There's an empty laugh - his speaker can only convey so much. "Haha, very funny," the screen is still pitch black - the lights around it have gone dark. "That's enough. You can come back now." His working right hand pushes against one of the pilot seat's ribs, 'his' elbow locks into place.
"Come on, Catherine," he shoves against the rib with his right, and wedges the remains of his left against the other rib. Only the abyss answers back, with a distant groan of currents on metal and the scrapings of a large body against the cage. "Catherine ... " The auditory mimic of a breath comes over his speaker - "stop fucking around!"
Simon strikes the pilot seat's rib, the outer lining of the diving suit scrapes against the metal. "Fucking -" he pushes against it with his mangled arm, " - stop - " he elbows the metal, putting his weight on the bar "- fucking - " he pulls away and shoves himself against the rib again " - around!"
Over and over, and over and over again.
The stump of his left hand strikes against the rib and breaks off a splinter of bone - digging it into Simon's arm. He screams, his words are a jumble of non-words and mechanical sounds.
Again he strikes the pilot seat's rib, feeling the metal give ever so slightly. A strike of metal on metal, the rattle of metal rubbing against metal, thrust of metal against metal. Dents form on the pilot seat and spot along the diving suit. One more strike against the rib and Simon pulls his arms in, holding his head casing with one hand and the mangled remains of an arm.
The breathing from his speaker is rapid - spotted by glitchy mutters and whispers.
"Itsokayitsokay.calmdowncalmdown," his speaker squawks.
Breathing techniques will not work for him - empty lungs breath dead air against his cybernetic head. "CalmdownSimon.CalmdownSimon." It doesn't work - of course it doesn't fucking work - what does he expect? Simon rocks in the pilot seat, wrapping his arms around himself - what he wouldn't give to have a hug. "Calmdown,thinkthisthrough,Simon." His speakers mimics the sound of blowing air - inside the stolen body he holds the stale air in his lungs.
He counts to twenty - slowly.
At ten his rocking nearly ceases - at twenty he is sitting still. He counts down to zero, speaking each one.
"Twenty,nineteen,eighteen,seventeen," his speaker makes a swallowing gulp - 'his' throat mimics. "Sixteen. Fifteen. Fourteen. Thirteen." All the way back to zero. For now, he's calm again, looking around the darkness that enveloped him. "Focus, Simon," he swallows 'his' throat.
With his right hand he feels around the pilot seat's ribs, tracing the bends and notches made in his panic. It still surrounds him, keeping him in place - alone in the abyss.
Alone.
Forever.
The bulky diving suit makes it hard for him to move. With his right Simon outlines the pilot seat's ribbing, pressing against the minor alterations in the metal for a weak point - somewhere to bend it away. Of course, Simon thinks to himself, he's not that lucky. It was still mostly intact, with only bends in the metal underside and slashes to the softer top that made up the arm rest. Feeling along to further back on the ribbing forces him to lean off to the left, forcing his head casing against the pilot seat's head unit.
"Stay calm, Simon," he whisper to himself - his vision clicks with static. "You're okay."
Along the right rib's welding to the pilot seat, he can barely feel a breakage - but he's not sure how well he can trust the surface of the diving suit's fingers, especially without any vision. In a moment of thought, he clicks on his flashlight - but it's useless.
He can't bend over that far to check.
Simon clicks his flashlight back off. The abyssal darkness surrounds him again.
He clicks it back on - even as he thought about how much power the battery melted into 'his' stolen body might still have left. Would he make it through the next 24 hours? The next 48?
Simon clicks the flashlight back off, again. With the elbow of his right he elbows the joint with as much force he can muster.
Would he be able to speak with anyone again? Metal contacts metal; they ring.
Who would he even speak to, if it's not Catherine? He elbows the joint again.
Would the door opener still work - was there still power to the rest of Pathos-2? Again.
Memories of the walk to Tau from the climber fill his cortex as he keeps slamming the joint.
Thumbing around the base of the climber for the way to Tau. Following the lights through the depths of the abyss. Having to follow a drone halfway through when the lights cut out - left by himself when a monster tore it away. Cramped tunnels. An angler fish with a human face. The torrential currents that beat him down the entire way - nearly tearing the lights from the path.
The worm thing - he still has a tear in the back of the diving suit - it was still out there. How long will it still survive; does it need the WAU?
With each slam of elbow against the pilot seat rib, the joint of the diving suit presses against fabric and skin. Simon can't help but ignore the pain - it was his only way out, right?
But ...
Was it even worth trying?
"Oh god," Simon whimpers, curling into a pathetic ball trapped in metal.
"It's eaSIER to jUSt Die NOW, iSN'T tHAT RIghT?" his speaker skips, vision swarming with glitches unseen to his optics - everything is just darkness. "EAsieR tO JuST dIE nOW", his speaker repeats, "I'mfUCKinGsTUCK HERE," his audio clicks, "Simon is FINE oN THe aRK."
"EasiER to JUST diE," his speaker repeats again - he holds his head.
"No. No, no no nononononononono," he slams his elbow into the joint again. "I mADe IT tHIS FAr," his audio clicks again, followed by the hush of a mimicked exhale of nonexistent air. "OkAY, SiMON," he leans back against the chair, "tHINK, thinK. Think for a fucking moMENT"
Inside the suit repeats the mock breaths as Simon sits still, holding one hand to the front of the diving suit. Absent-minded, he flicks the flashlight a few times - each time the dead deep grey of the inner part of the pilot seat stares him down. Could he just move that part out of the way?
He's still stuck in a seated position; could he even still force his way out at this point?
A mimic of a swallow - he feels the torn throat copy the sound. "Okay. So, there has to be a way out of this." Simon leaves the light on, surveying the area around the front of the pilot seat. The ribs were still intact, the head unit hovers above him, the panel with the launch button pins him away from escaping from that side - the monitor on the right on the other. If he was still in his previous - his body from Omicron - he could've probably wiggled out on the left side.
All that leaves is the monitor he last saw Catherine on - right in front of him.
It hung off a strap of metal that fixed it to the monitor on his right. The keyboard had marks from his earlier flailing - bent on the bottom and the face broken. If he breaks the monitor off of its mounting, then he'd be free.
Simon strikes the keyboard with a heavy boot, holding himself with one and a half hands in place.
The first kick dents the bottom of the keyboard frame and brings it closer to the mounting, the next several kicks do the same. Each kick of shin-guard against the keyboard frame frees each little bit of room, the mangled plastic and metal contorting against itself. If he had a mouth, he'd be biting his tongue; the metal of the suit's shin has started biting into his leg.
After some time there is enough room for Simon to pull his other leg up - letting his inward bent shin rest against the side of the seat. A part of him wants to stop - the pain from his shin and elbow overwhelms his hijacked senses.
That part of him would've given up in Upsilon.
With his good leg he strikes the monitor. Simon imagines Catherine's face is still there - chewing him up for his frustration. That he knew this was going to happen, that they completed their 'mission'. That it'd just be better to just die now. He keeps kicking at it, furthering the spider-web cracks in the specialized glass.
That's real easy to say when your consciousness is tied to the power.
Simon turns off the flashlight - he doesn't want to imagine it anymore.
"You could've fucking given it some thought before we launched the fucking ARK," he tells her invisible presence - she's still here. But she might as well not be. She's still in the door lock - omnitool - whatever. If he manages to find a panel with power he can yell at her then. Simon turns the flashlight on. The lower portion of the monitor hangs there crushed, the keyboard still hanging from the bottom.
"You got to be fucking kidding me," he groans, readying another kick.
He doesn't know how long he spent kicking the monitor.
Eventually the monitor hangs listlessly from its mounting, flapping with each following kick from the diving suit. His kicks went from just generally around the monitor to where it was fixed to the metal arm, hoping to free some more room.
As it turns out, the metal there is a lot thicker. Simon just lets out another groan.
He gauges the clearance between the remains of the monitor and the launch panel. Just a little too less for him to squeeze through. Though, he could maybe force the monitor back a little more, give himself just enough room to wiggle out of the pilot seat. But, before that, he needs to give himself some rest.
'Easier to just die' clicks through his idle thoughts.
It keeps coming back to him every couple seconds.