Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Rise and shine,” the guard clangs against the cell, shining a light into the bars.

He cracks open an eye, squinting against the intrusion. What the hell is it now?

“Hey!” The guard knocks the flashlight against the bars again. This time he blinks open both eyes, shifting around on his lumpy cot to signify that he was awake. Kind of. “You alive in there? Get up. Breakfast in five. Got a big day today.”

He tries to smack his lips, but to no avail. His mouth’s dry, his head hurts, and a curse was on his tongue against the C.O.I. for the tenth time that week. Stingy bastards wouldn’t even let him have water. He attempts to sit up, grimacing at how weak his body feels. “Whazz goin’ on?”

“Well, it’s finally your turn.”

He picks his head up, frowning at the guard. Nothing this person has said has made any sense since they rudely interrupted his fitful sleep. “My turn for what?”

“To pay your debts,” the guard says as if it were obvious, like he was the one being stupid and unclear. “The C.O.I. isn’t that cruel, convict. You’ll eventually get your freedom. Here, though. Not back in your Martian hometown.”

A bell rings in the distance, signaling that breakfast is about to be served. He stares at the prison guard, who moves away to let the cooks push this morning’s stale grub through the food compartment. He’s sure none of the ingredients used for the “bread” are even remotely edible for humans. He grabs the hard lump in his hands and takes an experimental bite out of it, but the water provided isn’t enough to wash it down.

There’s a smarmy grin on the guard’s lips. “Eat up. Big day today. No time for training.”

He's left alone to his meager meal and swirling thoughts. Truth to be told, he was still feeling a bit dizzy. The cot he slept on was immensely uncomfortable, and no pillow was provided, either. He had to fold up his blanket a certain way to get some kind of cushion under his head, but every morning that he woke up, his head would throb, a sharp sort of pounding against his skull, and any sort of functionality he would have had for the rest of the day would’ve been impaired by bad sleep.

Yeah. Fuck the C.O.I.

He’s lost track of the years he’s been held prisoner by the Consolidation of Iron. He was vaguely aware of the name of the station he’s now in  back when he was still a young soldier following Eden’s orders, but any love he had for the government was quickly snuffed when no rescue or help came. He’d barely seen the cadets he was captured with, as the C.O.I. enjoyed enforce solitary confinement. He’s got no love for anyone following the C.O.I., either; as far as he’s concerned, he’s just been used as a tool over and over and over again. His twenties were spent behind bars and he was never able to contact his family or friends after the events of Filament Station. The most social interaction he gets is from the rotation of guards who like to provoke him and the cooks who serve the blandest meals on this side of the dying galaxy. And, occasionally, the station doctor.

It’s a pitiful life—no. It’s no life at all. The soul was sapped out of him ages ago—he wonders who is left in this body of his, running on only the most basic of tasks.

It isn’t long until the doors to his cell slide open and two new guards appear to escort him wherever he needs to be. His wrists are cuffed, an expandable helmet is attached to the base of his left ear, and soon they march him out in the direction of the docking bay.

The appearance of a small shuttle sets off alarm bells in his head. 

He’s heard rumors floating around his cell block about what actually happens when you’re in the Conviction Realization program. Some convicts get sent off in the exact same way he is now; some come back, and the majority don’t. But the ones that do return…

Well. He ends up being too far away to hear the tales. But anything can happen when a shuttle is there, ready to transport you elsewhere. It’s usually to another station, or another moon where the C.O.I. expects surveys to be done, but he can’t imagine either of those being significant enough to warrant the guard being overly excited for whatever he’s been signed up for today.

In the shuttle, he gets situated in front of a scientist who looks like she’d much rather be anywhere else but with him. She doesn’t talk to him during the entire ride, and it’s only when they reach a stretch of land where swathes of red stretch across its surface that the scientist spares no time with introductions.

“Convict,” she intones, “today, you are tasked with exploring the blood ocean of AT-5.”

He does a double take. “What?”

The scientist gives him a nasty look for interrupting. “There are anomalies within this area that we must analyze, and we need visuals to confirm our theories. This is your most important mission yet.”

“I’m sorry,” his voice is starting to get shrill, “did you say blood ocean? As in, you want me to go inside one?”

Lips pursed in annoyance, she makes a motion for the guards to haul him up to his feet. One of them taps the display for the expandable helmet under his ear, and soon the now-discernible faint tang of iron was replaced with recycled oxygen.

They exit the shuttle to where a lab situated next to a pier sits by its lonesome. Scientists and engineers bustle in and out of the space, walking up a small ramp from the pier leading to the top of a submersible, where the characters SM-13 are etched in black paint. Two engineers stand on top near the entrance, grimacing down at their boots. He nearly gags—dark, sticky matter coagulated their soles to the metallic surface.

But Christ. There it was—a blood ocean.

It moves like molasses and bubbles rise to the surface. As they get closer to the coast, he feels a sudden wave of humidity emanating from the ocean. Steam can be seen from a distance. It makes his skin crawl when he realizes that the blood itself was running warm.

He doesn’t want to think about the implications of that.

The scientist leans close to him as they walk up the pier. “This is SM-13, which we have all nicknamed the ‘Iron Lung’. You will man this submarine as you navigate the blood ocean. Use the coordinates provided to take images from inside of the Iron Lung. It is not designed for high-pressure conditions, so we have to take some liberties—such as welding you shut from the outside.”

He turns to her with steadily rising panic. “What?!”

The corner of her lip curls in annoyance. “Please refrain from shouting into my ear, convict. I’m right next to you.”

He politely ignores her suggestion. “You’re gonna shut me into a metal death trap?!”

She huffs a sigh. “We are welding you in for your own safety. The forward porthole will also be closed due to the high pressure.”

He whips his head around when they reach the end of the dock. There are no other visible windows on this submarine.

“Oh my god,” he mumbles faintly. “I’m going in blind.”

“Unfortunately, there is no time for training,” the scientist says, not sounding very remorseful at all, “so we are counting on you to pick up on the coordination for this ship. If you are successful…”

She leans in close again, a small smirk playing on her lips. “You will earn your freedom.”

He swallows before peering down at her. She’s C.O.I. Can’t be trusted. Barely even cared about him in the fifteen minutes they’ve been near each other.

“My freedom,” he parrots, tasting the words on his tongue, “for some pictures?”

“It’s recorded in the submarine. Come back with all ten photos and you’ll be pardoned for your crimes.”

He turns back to the entrance of the submarine, wondering if this is worth risking his life for.

Freedom…it wasn’t something he’d thought was attainable for a decade and a half. Not with the kind of people who’d kept him there, not with the kind of people who’d sent him there in the first place, and not with the inevitability that the universe will likely die in his short, wasted little lifetime.

Maybe there’s other things within the blood ocean that’ll take care of that dilemma for him. Maybe freedom becomes something else. What can these people promise him that would make his last years in this barren galaxy worth living?

He steels himself. He’s made his decision.

The last thing he sees of the outside world before he gets sealed off in a windowless submarine is the pitch-black expanse of the once starlit sky.