Shiny Things

Richard “Dick” Simmons stood awkwardly in front of the door to the Grif siblings’ apartment, unsure of whether or not he really wanted to knock and enter. He knew that Kai was busy hanging out with Volleyball elsewhere, and that most of the others were still preparing for the mission that Kimball finally decided to okay, something he may have already done himself in the off-chance that they were told they’d be going. Truth be told, that was partially why he was here at Dexter Grif’s door in the first place.

Grif had retreated with a huff to his room after muttering how it looked like none of them had a choice but to go despite the human still being wary of that Temple guy for some reason. That had been around the same time as when Doctor Grey had decided to pull Simmons aside to quietly confirm what Tucker of all people had surmised earlier about Simmons’ recent biological developments. The Strassian knew he didn’t really want to dwell on the real reason behind why he was in his third stage, or actually discuss it with the person he was beginning to suspect was the real cause of it, but Simmons felt as if he owed Grif something for always being there for him and helping everyone out even when he didn’t want to do so, just like with this upcoming mission.

So, one truth in exchange for one that had replaced it as far as secrets went. The redhead could live with that. Honest! He could do this. He could. Grif had been waiting rather patiently and…

“Hey, Simmons!” Donut greeted from behind, causing Simmons to nearly jump in fright, “You read to get down and dirty?”

Maroon’s pilot winced at Donut’s poor word choice, honestly not sure if he really wanted Donut there at all, but he knew that words were going to fail him if he started trying to talk and he certainly wasn’t all that eager to share what had happened with either Matthews or Doc instead. Truth be told, he didn’t really have too many Elvari options out of his woefully small social circle.

Simmons, still visibly tense, managed to give a slight nod as his voice returned to functioning again, “Y—yeah, just give me a minute, maybe?”

“Whenever you’re ready to plow right on through!” Donut tried assuring him, gently touching the Strassian’s arm, “It’ll be okay, you know.”

Simmons appreciated the gesture even though he honestly wasn’t sure it would be. A nervous knot grew larger in the pit of his stomach with every passing second. He was about to knock on the door when Grif suddenly opened it from the other side, “I thought I heard some voices.” Orange’s pilot raised a dark eyebrow at the duo’s presence on his doorstop, “What’s up? If it’s another of your mood interventions, Donut, then I’m telling you now I’ll never be in the right mood.”

“Oh, it’s nothing like that this time!” Donut was quick to say, causing Simmons to raise a red-haired eyebrow questioningly, though the pink-wearing Elvari only gestured for Simmons to explain why they were there as Grif waited expectantly with arms crossed.

Simmons really wanted to do nothing more than to run away, but he swallowed nervously and pushed through his anxiety, “Actually, we’re here because there’s something that I want, no, maybe need to tell you, Grif.” He glanced over at Donut’s encouraging smile as he added, “Th—though showing might be for the best.”

Grif’s brow knitted in surprise, especially given how nervous and serious Simmons was being, but he nodded anyways and let them both inside. For the first time, Simmons opted not to comment on the overly disheveled and messy state of the apartment, feeling as though he really needed to take the plunge right then and there before he chickened out.

Simmons was extremely nervous. After all, this was his first time traveling off their home world with his father. Actually, it was the first time they had traveled really anywhere together, now that he thought about it.

A part of Simmons, the part that was giddy and excited that his dad had finally taken notice of him (don’t you dare screw it up!), had to wonder at the last minute invitation thrown over the older man’s shoulder as he prepared to leave. His father had simply informed him that an emergency had come up and there was no time to contact Simmons’ mother until after it was resolved. Simmons had been so eager and happy to be included that he hadn’t really given any thought to how bizarrely out-of-character that was for the older Strassian.

Apparently his father helped organize and provide funding medical centers on planets that would otherwise not have the resources for them. Something so serious had come up at one of those medical centers that the person in charge had been forced to request Simmons Senior’s presence to oversee the matter.

“It’s quite the hassle,” his father had (willingly, even!) explained, “But you have to be willing to do such things if you want to maintain a good rapport with clients.”

Simmons thought it best not to remark on how the older man hadn’t really ever chosen to do so with his own family (were they a hassle not worth investing in?), simply saying instead that he understood like a good son should and making a mental note to write the words down all the same in his journal when he got back.

So now here they were, on a frozen world out in the middle of who-knew-where, only closed off from the bitter cold by the facility walls and no doubt state-of-the-art environmental tech, his father greeting the friendly smiling Strassian doctor who evidently ran the place. There was a noise off to the side of their introductions, and Simmons turned in time to see a brown-haired Arenian (an assistant, maybe?) bowing out of the room.

“And this must be your son that you have told us so much about.” The doctor in charge was suddenly looking straight at Simmons, beaming.

“He…he has?” Simmons couldn’t keep the hopeful surprise out of his voice, even though he knew his father disapproved of him displaying too much emotion. His father never talked about him at home. Hell, he hardly ever even acknowledged his son’s existence.

“Of course.” The doctor’s smile was downright benign, “He’s so very eager to see what results you’ll bring home one day.”

“Results?” Simmons tilted his head curiously to the side, wondering if the doctor meant his university test results. A wave of panic and regret hit the redhead, as he knew how upset his scores on those always got his father. His test anxiety was one of many reasons why he was considered so pathetic.

Suddenly, the doctor stood directly in front of Simmons with surprising speed. The younger Strassian instinctively flinched and took a step back, especially upon noting the injection the man was holding. The doctor seemed to notice his apprehensive gaze because he looked down at the needle himself, “Oh, this? No need to be afraid, my dear boy,” he assured Simmons, “Before we begin our tour, it’s only standard procedure that you get an inoculation against any planetary diseases.” His smile somehow impossibly brightened, “Your father already had his on his last visit here.”

Simmons glanced questioningly over at his father then, who merely nodded his head impatiently as though Simmons was holding everything up. Knowing that Simmons Senior wouldn’t tolerate his own flesh and blood being scared of a simple shot, Simmons nodded and only slightly winced as he was given the medication.

“Excellent!” The doctor patted his other arm in a friendly gesture once he’d finished, “You’ll get along swimmingly here.”

“Um…” Simmons was about to ask what he meant by that when the doctor quickly turned back around and walked over to his father again. The pair began discussing some kind of results in hushed voices together. The conversation droned on in the background, an ignored Simmons trying to politely and awkwardly standing off to the side.

He didn’t even notice at first when his body began to feel impossibly heavy and he started having a hard time standing upright. Simmons collapsed to his knees on the ground before he could prevent it, using his weakening arms and hands to try and keep himself from pitching face-first onto the floor.

“…” The conversation drifted off as the two older men suddenly became aware of Simmons’ struggling condition.

“The first treatment has taken effect.” The kindly-sounding doctor surmised as they both strode over and looked down at the young man in a rather assessing manner.

“Wha—what’s…?” Simmons began, a burst of panic coursing through him at his failing struggle to even stay on his knees.

“Ah, there’s no need for you to worry, my boy.” The doctor put what was meant to be a reassuring hand on his shoulder and Simmons could barely flinch at the unwanted contact, “You’re just being prepped for your stay here.”

Simmons’ eyes widened fearfully, “Stay?”

The doctor ignored him to focus on Simmons’ impassive father instead, “Are you truly all right with this, sir?”

The cold and utterly indifferent look the man gave his son just then froze the blood in Simmons’ veins as he stated, “Richard is an absolute failure as an heir, but there’s a chance he can at least be repurposed as breeding stock to make our family great again.”

“I see.” The doctor nodded as if it was a perfectly acceptable thing to say, “We’ll certainly take good care of him during his stay here.”

“This has been quite a nuisance to arrange, so I’m expecting results no matter how long the wait.” Simmons Senior huffed out before he looked away from the son he viewed as little more than an eyesore.

And then he was leaving and…

“Fath—mmph!” A piece of what seemed to be surgical tape was pressed over Simmons’ mouth.

“Now, now. I know this new situation is going to be a lot to take in, but we can’t have you making a fuss and upsetting the other patients who have already started adjusting to their roles, can we?” The doctor chided gently, and Simmons knew he would forever hate the man’s unnerving smile.

Simmons’ eyes widened in horror. There were other Strassians here? He couldn’t even find the energy to try to lift one of his arms and remove the degrading tape, certain the change in balance would cause him to fall. What the hell was this place?

“Did you think you were the only one?” The doctor’s tone was now more than just a tad patronizing, “Dear boy, your father has helped fund several pheromone research stations just like this, using those Strassians deemed less successful in society as subjects.” He smiled with an anticipatory gleam in his eyes, “You’ll be an excellent addition to those numbers. I’m sure of it.”

The Arenian assistant from before with the muddy brown hair returned, this time pushing a wheelchair in front of him. He seemed genuinely bored by the whole routine, the doctor waiting patiently as the taller alien pulled Simmons impassively into the seat.

“Now then,” the doctor clapped his hands together excitedly, “Let’s have ourselves that tour and get you situated, hmm?”

Simmons was wheeled through hallways filled with rooms containing bedridden Strassians, all of whom he discovered were being dosed with Tevkask in order to keep them sedate and increase their pheromone output. He tried struggling ineffectively in his wheelchair, horrified that his father would sign him or anyone else up for this kind of treatment.

“Don’t.” The Arenian spoke up, grabbing Simmons’ weakly flailing shoulders to keep him firmly in place, “You’ll just fall out and we’ll put you back in again. You were given a pretty high dosage of Tevkask.”

Simmons decided he hated the very sound of the Arenian’s voice, possibly even more than the doctor’s. He glared at the maroon-wearing alien despite his terror, but the asshole didn’t even bother looking down at him.

“You might be wondering why I’m doing all of this.” The doctor noted as they continued their stroll despite the fact that Simmons couldn’t care less, “Truthfully, it merely boils down to Strassian bodies being absolutely fascinating in terms of what they’re capable of.” He smiled once more, a conspiratorial wink thrown the redhead’s way, “Besides, it is good to give use to otherwise useless people, isn’t it?”

Simmons couldn’t argue with the tape still covering his mouth. He wasn’t even sure he should or could at all considering how his father had just abandoned him here. Did his father truly see him as useless?

“Here we are!”

A room’s door opened at the doctor’s jovial exclamation, an identical but empty one to all the others they’d passed. There was a woefully open restroom area, a shower, medical cabinets, and a bed in the center of the space with a lid overtop that attached to the ceiling with a complicated structure of tubes.

“That is to allow us to capture the pheromones that you’ll be producing for us.” The doctor explained as the Arenian heaved him onto the side of the bed like a sack of potatoes.

Simmons could only sit there helplessly as they stripped and redressed him into a hospital gown and then laid him in the contraption.

The lid sealed shut over him, and he heard the doctor’s muffled voice explaining, “We’ll leave you to adjust for right now, but tomorrow we’ll begin in earnest.” He smiled down at him and Simmons wanted to vomit, “After all, there’s an important secondary reason you’re here. The results your father wants need to be gotten as quickly and as safely as possible.” He rested a hand on the transparent lid, “You’re in your new home, Richard. We’ll be taking the utmost care of you.”

The two left, turning off the lights for complete darkness. They forgot to remove the tape from over his mouth. Simmons felt his tears soaking the edges of it.

The next days were a blur, filled with constant medication and feedings. Simmons absolutely despised it, and he hated how utterly helpless he was. The redhead could still move slightly, but the tiniest of struggles tired him out and he couldn’t do much on his own.

The bed was often sealed completely shut, though one time when the Arenian assistant failed to do so completely, Simmons managed to push himself onto the floor. He was only a few steps away from the bed, practically crawling, when the assistant had rushed in, looking horrified, amused, and angry all at once at Simmons’ escape attempt. He used medical restraints to strap Simmons down onto the bed for quite a few days following, “We have to make sure you don’t get any more funny ideas.”

The Arenian was the one who most handled taking care of Simmons on a daily basis: helping him take showers and even, humiliatingly, use the restroom. Simmons hated being reliant on him, hated how thorough and clinical the man was. The Arenian also fed and exercised him with actions that comprised of forced limb movements and massages to avoid atrophy. He seemed to revel in showing Simmons just how helpless he’d become, chiding him for getting dirty and remarking how “it was probably for the best you’re here now so we can take care of you.”

The doctor Simmons saw more sparingly after that first encounter, and the older man wore a protective suit of armor every time he came into the room, “It’s to keep the pheromones from affecting me overly much.” He explained one day, though Simmons hadn’t asked.

Simmons glanced at the Arenian then, noticing his always distinctive lack of gear.

The doctor smiled knowingly at his unasked question, “That is part of our testing, you see.” He informed the redhead, “All nonessential personnel signed forms agreeing that they would work without gear around at least one patient so that we can observe the results.” There was a glimmer in his eyes as he conspiratorially added to his literal captive audience, “It’s all very fascinating.”

Sometimes, when the Arenian was mocking him now, he had a strange, intense look in his eyes and Simmons found that he really couldn’t agree with the doctor.

The “result” that his father had so implicitly wanted, as it turned out, was an heir. Simmons was to essentially be used as breeding stock for his “superior” genes in the hope that any of his offspring would fare better with them than he had.

“Tevkask readies a body for that natural process almost as readily as discovering a mate would.” The doctor explained once after he finished up yet another physical exam, rubbing his hand over Simmons’ exposed belly as he did so. It was cold and impersonal with all of his protective gear on, and Simmons shuddered at the unwanted touch, noticing the assistant in the background also tensing up as it occurred.

“Yes, you should be ready soon enough,” the doctor continued, musing thoughtfully, “And we already have so many impressive Strassian candidates to choose from.” He smiled benignly down at a trembling Simmons, “Why I should think you’ll be giving birth at least three times before your father is truly satisfied.”

Simmons remained silent, struggling to keep tears from falling down his face and feeling shame that he knew it was a losing battle. The doctor carried on joyfully, oblivious to his growing distress, “Aren’t you glad that you have a place where you can ensure that all your needs are taken care of?” He asked, “Do try and think of how much a positive that is, at least.” Simmons began to weakly renew his struggling, even though he knew it was pointless. The doctor “tsked” in disapproval and turned to his assistant, “Be sure to up his dosage tonight.”

“You’ll be much better off on the Arc Ship. You’ll see.”

The assistant came to see him that night, acting strangely and uncomfortably intimate as he talked about his own unclear plans for Simmons. The Arenian spoke of how he was going to take Simmons far away from there, to somewhere where no one would ever find them and all Simmons had to do first was help his real boss on a special project.

Simmons spent the following day even more despondent than usual. He’d pretty much given up entirely at that point, until he heard what sounded like a huge commotion taking place inside the facility.

“Your name is Simmons, right?”

That was when Washington came to rescue him and the other prisoners, apparently on his mother’s orders. Though Simmons was upset at the possibility of never seeing her again, knowing that one of his parents had actually cared enough to try and rescue him ended up helping him quite a bit during his lengthy recovery period amongst the remnants of Project Freelancer, who were also licking their own wounds, so to speak. Eventually, the ragtag group of survivors wound up finding themselves on Chorus.

“And it wasn’t too long after that when I found Maroon here and became a pilot.” Simmons finished vocally as Donut lowered his hands from his and Grif’s faces following the severing of the Elvari telepathic link.

Donut’s lower lip quivered, and it looked as if he might burst into tears at any moment, “I had no idea you’d been through something so awful, Simmons.”

A sad sort-of smile played across Simmons’ features at the sympathy, “It was a lot to recover from, and I still don’t like really talking about it.”

A sniffle came from the younger Elvari in pink, “Still!” He admonished, “No one should go through something like that!”

Touched by the display and fighting back tears of his own, Simmons reached out to shakily grasp his pink-wearing comrade’s shoulder, “It’s okay, Donut.”

“No, it isn’t.” Both men turned to regard Grif then. The heavyset human’s brown eyes were downcast, and he was radiating anger and upset from his entire being.

Simmons blinked, taken aback, “G—Grif?”

Grif stood up, towering over the two men, eyes burning as he looked down at Simmons’ questioning gaze with his shaking hands balled into fists at his sides, “How can someone ever get back to normal after something like that?” The human demanded, as though he were upset on the Strassian’s behalf.

“It—it’s a struggle.” Simmons admitted quietly as he too stood up to his full lanky height, “But I had Wash and the others, my mother in spirit at least, and now…” he paused, unable to look directly into Grif’s eyes as heat flared up on his face, “Now I have the rest of you too.” Donut sniffled again, looking positively touched, while Grif openly gaped at Simmons, apparently too stunned for words. “I…I obviously still have issues with it, or Trocadero wouldn’t have happened—” Simmons continued, “But each day helps me move on. I’m going to survive what happened because I have to.”

Grif lowered his head, muttering something unintelligible under his breath.

Simmons and Donut both looked at each other, Simmons working up the courage to finally ask, “What was that, Grif?”

“Thanks for telling me.” Orange’s heavyset pilot said it a little louder then, looking decidedly anywhere that wasn’t in Simmons’ vicinity.

Simmons smiled again, “It’s kind of a relief to share it now,” he stated, surprised at how sincerely he felt about the admission, “The only other person who really knew what had happened was Wash.” And even his blond mentor had to piece some of it together on his own because Simmons had been too ashamed at first to discuss it. The redhead nodded slightly in Grif’s direction, “Thank you for waiting to know it.” He then turned to Donut, “And thank you for letting me share it.”

“Simmons…” Donut began, still sniffling as he stood up as well, “Don’t worry, I won’t tell a soul. No matter how hard they might come and beg!”

“Th—thanks, Donut.” Simmons told him, though he was more than just a little off-put by his teammate’s wording.

Donut smiled and quickly made his way out of the apartment, claiming he still had preparations of his own to do for the mission, leaving Grif and Simmons standing there in awkward silence. “S—so…” Simmons figured he should try breaking it with a bit of a joke, “You wanna talk about it?”

Grif scoffed, “I should be asking you that.”

“Maybe. Maybe later.” Simmons admitted, “Right now, it’s just a relief to finally share what happened.”

“Right.” Grif looked as if he wanted to say more, but then seemed to think better of it. Knowing when to push things and when not to was one of the traits that Simmons had secretly grown to greatly appreciate in the chubby human who didn’t give himself nearly enough credit.

“Since I know you’re a huge kiss-ass and nerd who has probably already packed for this mission I’d rather not go on,” Grif settled on saying instead, “Mind helping me do the same?”

Simmons knew that Grif was trying to get his mind off of things, and he was thankful for the distraction as well as the chance to organize, “Sure,” he told Grif, “What do you still need to do?”

Grif looked at him as though the answer to that should be obvious, “All of it.”

“Grif!” Simmons couldn’t help but reprimand him, “We’ve known we were going to Iris since yesterday. How can you be so lazy?”

“Yeah, but that still gives me several hours left to pack.” Grif told him rationally, shrugging, “I usually do it in under two.”

“Which explains why most of your gear consists of nothing but extra rations.” Simmons replied, letting out an exasperated sigh as he shook his head.

“A man’s got to be prepared, Simmons.”

The Strassian let out a weary breath of air but smiled, “I’ll definitely help just to make sure you don’t die out there, fat-ass.”

“Love you too, Simmons.” Grif joked though both men blushed and didn’t look at the other as they started going through Simmons’ already painstakingly prepared checklist. The mission to Iris might just be incredibly awkward yet.