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Simon comes to with his head against window glass, gentle vibrations rocking through it and gently stirring him from the great big dreamless sleep.
Blearily, he blinks the world into focus. To his immediate right is a door of some sort, though it's short-- he doesn't think he could walk through it. He looks down and his heart jerks as he realizes he's strapped down, immediately reaching for the strap on his chest and yanking it, only to find it perfectly slack, not restricting his movement at all. In front of him is a black plastic dashboard, another large window. Car, his mind belatedly supplies. He's never been in one of these.
The view outside halts all thoughts. The road is not what startles him, no, it's the sky. It isn't black. It's grey and overcast with clouds. Real, fluffy, water vapor clouds. Oh, god, and it meets solid ground, lined with trees, these towering loblolly pines, and if he focuses his eyes he can see shrubbery in the woods.
Simon's heart stops for a third time when he turns and sees the driver.
Ava sits with two hands on the wheel, nine-and-three, eye focused on the long, empty road and her face fixed into a relaxed scowl, which was an expression Simon hadn't thought possible.
"Are you-"
"Holy shit!" Ava jumps, looking over, briefly, before looking back at the road. "Fuck's sake."
Simon frowns in her direction, "What?"
"Nothing, I just really thought you were-..." she cuts herself off and seems to deem that train of thought irrelevant, "Nothing."
He's half tempted to chase the line of questioning, seeing as they're stuck in here together (god, it's smaller than the 13), but he reconsiders, glancing at his side of the car's distinct lack of any controls. It makes sense, he supposes, a vehicle this small would only need one driver. ...But that does beg the question, would they have had cars in the COI? He doesn't think so, it'd be a horrible use of space, but they seem to have a hard-on for anything from the past, so you never can be sure.
"How do you know how to drive this?"
The slight tilt of her head tells Simon that her first answer was going to be a smart-ass one, but the sentence catches as she opens her mouth, and after a moment of recalibration, she clips, "I don't know."
Simon's face pulls back in a grimace. "Where are we going?"
Her scowl deepens, "Forward."
Always with the vagueries, isn't she? "Forward where?"
"I don't-" She hisses, looks into the rear view mirror, where there's a little S in the top left corner, "South. Happy?"
Simon deadpans. He thinks about it, he truly does. And he decides it's only fair, and it would be funny, and after that beat, he asks, "South where?" Then, as a cherry on top, "Captain."
"I don't know, C-" She shuts her mouth with a frustrated sound, but not for long, "Are you always this much of a child?"
Are you always this much of a bitch? is the first response he comes up with, which he has enough forethought to stop before it reaches his mouth. Instead, he opts for something less inflammatory and more personally cutting, "I think I've earned it."
The most response he gets to that is a clipped sigh from Ava and a mumbled, "Right."
Well. That settles that, then. It's fine, it gives Simon time to look outside, which he can't seem to stop doing. The car is moving too fast to get a good look at any singular plant for long, and that tugs at something inside his chest, but still, he savors the sight for what it is-- strange, beautiful, with the glory of something that does not yet know it should not exist.
The silence is suddenly absolutely shattered by blaring radio static, music, and a chipper man's voice cutting in at way too high a volume, Simon startling back, "If you or a loved one suffer from erectile dysfunction--"
"Shut up shut up shut up--" Ava fumbles with some dials on the center console. Graciously, the volume goes down, and whatever was playing switches into jazz, or something in a weird time signature anyway, with a lot of piano and bass.
After a moment, a laugh bubbles up in Simon's ribcage, not quite escaping to his mouth, though he feels the corner of his mouth quirk. This doesn't help against Ava's previous allegations.
"So were you listening to that earlie-"
"I didn't know! I thought it would just be news or music!" There's less bite to her interjection here, an almost playful lamentation hidden underneath it.
"Maybe it is news. Maybe it's a new disease sweeping the world." A snicker creeps out of Simon.
"Fuck off."
Though, he does wonder. He grabs the dial and turns it slightly, the music changes to a bunch of men screaming in their upper register to a backing of electric guitar and heavy drums. Pop punk, if Simon had to guess, another old genre, except it was pretty hard to find on Eden, the files for it buried deep in the library under pre-Rapture hedonism. Before things got serious, he and Wyeth would sneak back behind the big metal shelves and listen to whatever they could get their hands on.
His brief teenaged nostalgia means he misses the way Ava lights up, and so he is caught completely off guard when she begins belting out the words with perfect recall, drumming the line in time onto the steering wheel.
Simon stares like she's grown a second head. Who the hell is this, and what has she done with Ava? As quickly as it happened, she seems to remember herself and resumes a military posture, clearing her throat.
"What was that?" Simon guffaws slightly.
Ava pointedly does not look at him. "Nothing you'll ever repeat to anyone."
The lyrics hit him finally and Simon struggles to stifle a laugh. Oh my god.
Ava frowns, "What?"
"Nothing." He pauses again, and then he can't help himself, "It's just- It's a little funny. You know, I think when they're singing about "the fucking propaganda", you're-"
"And how would you know that? They didn't even let you guys listen to music--"
Simon splutters, "We had music, asshole--"
"Not this kind!"
"Okay, well--" Simon flounders for a second, "I was a teenager at one point! I did teenaged things!"
It's Ava's turn to laugh, ""Teenaged things"?"
"Up yours." Simon sticks his middle finger out at her.
Ava scoffs.
Before the argument can devolve any further, they're both interrupted by a red sign on a tall steel pole coming up over the horizon. Simon squints. The white text reads "COOK•OUT" with a spatula going through the bottom row. He thinks the spatula's on fire.
He looks over to Ava, who's still staring at the sign, then the road, then the sign.
"What do we think that is?" Ava squints at it as though it would make any more sense.
"I think we're dead." The thought occurred to him earlier, but only just made it to his mouth.
Ava waves him off, "Shut up, I'm trying to figure out what that sign is."
Well fuck me, I guess. Simon sighs and focuses ahead of them again.
The line of trees breaks suddenly, revealing a square plot of land on the right, where the grass becomes unnaturally verdant, and suddenly gives way to an asphalt parking lot, like the ones in the movies, aged and grey with faded white lines dividing the spaces. Beyond that, a rectangular building with large windows, ads with combo deals for more food than Simon's ever seen on one plate pasted in bright reds and whites lining them.
Ava parks after about five tries and mumbling to the wheel as though it has any say in where she steers it. Simon feels the car settle as she turns it off, and he hears the shunk of the doors unlocking. He attempts to stand, only to ricochet back in the seat, because, shit, right. The strap. He fumbles with it before finding the release button and folding out of the car.
Simon catches his reflection in the window. He looks no different than he did before he entered the SM-13. The fact startles a breath out of him, all that, and nothing to show for it? He has both arms, no scars. Well, actually, that's a lie; if he squints at the tinted glass, he can catch the line of red discoloration starting at his right eyelid and slashing across under the left. Right where the blood had hit him the first time-- the only proof it happened at all. His stomach turns. If he's supposed to be thankful for this, he isn't.
He stares a bit longer than he means to. Ava clears her throat and Simon looks over, scowling slightly, "Coming, coming."
Following Ava inside does his nauseous state no favors. He's hit with a cacophony of sensations: the sound of many people, the bright, fluorescent lights, the sound of the radio, the sound and smell of something frying, freshly seasoned meat on the grill, the stark reds, whites, blacks and greys of the interior, somewhere, a small alarm goes off, something else beeps, someone belly laughs louder than they mean to, some sweet smell underpins everything. The beginnings of a headache begin to prickle under his skull.
Getting his bearings, though, the layout isn't completely foreign to him. It's a restaurant. His mom took him to one when he was little, maybe about four, after they'd moved to the Grove. It must've been a month or so before the rapture.
Simon blinks away the memory before it can get to him, turning his attention to Ava.
Ava has stopped in her tracks, staring at the wall ahead of her with such intensity that you would be forgiven for thinking she was looking at art. Simon's reaction is twofold: first, the instinct to laugh at her, second, the knot of dread in his stomach tightening. He follows her gaze.
It's a menu. The tension leaves him and he snickers to himself. All that over a menu... and then it dawns on him that he doesn't know how any of these options taste when made organically. Shit.
He's pulled from this inner conflict by Ava, "Simon, pick three numbers between one and ten."
He blinks at her. "What-? Why?"
"So I can pick something."
Simon huffs, still not entirely getting the logic, "Fine, uh- 4, 8 and 5."
Ava nods.
She goes ahead of him and orders, tells the cashier to put Simon on the same order and then it's his turn far too soon, he hasn't even picked anything out, he pauses like a deer in headlights, "Uh- what do you recommend?"
The cashier, a shorter woman with a nose ring, is thrown by the question for a few seconds, she looks to the menu for a moment, then back at him, "I usually go for the Outwest style with two cheese quesadillas and a side of Cajun fries. And a water."
Simon nods, "I'll get that, then."
"Alright, your total is $14.78."
"Thanks." Simon steps aside, watches as Ava struggles to wrap her head around the card system.
Ava comes over to wait near Simon, mumbling something about, "You'd think they'd mark which end of the card is supposed to go in."
Simon gives a short exhale through the nose in response.
Shortly after, their food is ready and Ava picks up two paper bags, telling Simon to grab the cardboard cup holder. It's simple enough, so he obliges. Thankfully, they seem to share the opinion that it is far too loud in here, because Ava heads back outside to the outdoor table.
The metal grate of the table is warmer than he expects, which makes sense when he takes a step back to feel the ambient temperature. Warm, humid. He keeps finding himself looking at the sky, held captive by the blanket of grays.
Styrofoam nudges his arm. He looks down and Ava's passed him a box and a plastic water bottle. Simon pries open the box to see what he's gotten.
It's more food than reasonable. It's almost definitely more food than he can eat in one sitting: a full sized burger, two full sized quesadillas with cheese oozing out the sides, a generous helping of fries with even more generous seasoning- there is no business or right in giving a singular human being this much food. And good God, it's fresh off the grill, warm and fragrant. He has to avert his gaze briefly, some great unnameable emotion churning deep in his stomach.
Ava seems to be suffering in a similar way, face twisted at her own food like she feels guilty for even looking at it.
The feeling is shared. He wants to bow his head, clasp his hands together and murmur grace, ("Father, we thank you for this meal, we thank you for your one begotten son" so on and so forth), but the thought of that is equally stomach churning, the intense eye of God burned into his memory. His thanks would mean nothing to that eye.
Nothing to be done for it, then. Air fills his lungs and he looks to the food again. The fry he grabs is crispy and warm between his fingers, grease and a dusting of seasoning gritting onto his fingertips. He pops it into his mouth and is startled by the amount of flavor. It's complex in a way he has to stop and consider: bright, sharp, but earthy and savory, with a slightly sweet undertone. He tries another, the same burst of flavor. Christ. Years of flavorless rations with no purpose other than caloric intake make such a small thing taste like fresh water after years in the desert.
All at once, it hits him how devastatingly hungry he is, nearly sick with it. The quesadilla is next, then, Simon not taking nearly as much time to process the flavors as the cheese melts into his mouth when he tears into it. Fuck. Did people just eat like this? All the time?
"Taste this."
The cheesy reverie is broken. Ava's jamming her drink in Simon's direction, expression intense and stern.
He doesn't even put down the quesadilla, "Why?"
Her face screws up like it's a stupid question, a slight scoff, "I'm not trying to poison you."
He wants to laugh, then. God. She really can't turn it off, can she? Wordlessly, he takes the drink from her, inspects it.
It's heavier than he expects, a cold, pink and thick sort of cream-thing. Calling it a liquid would be a bit too generous, but he can't, in good faith, call it solid either. It's a bit like wet concrete. He sends Ava a skeptical look.
Ava gestures for him to get on with it.
Simon rolls his eyes. Sipping it, a violently sweet taste hits his tongue- vanilla and some fruity flavor that he can't pin down. His eyes widen. It is good.
"I know, right?" Ava leans forward emphatically.
"It's like they dumped a whole bag of sugar into this." He passes it back, "What flavor is it?"
"Strawberry, supposedly."
He snickers, "That's not how I remember strawberry tasting."
Grabbing her burger, she hums in question.
"They're tart." He returns to the business of his quesadilla.
Mind clearer, Simon glances at the parking lot while he eats, empty save for his and Ava's car, a beat up and boxy rust red SUV. Ha-ha. The pavement looks old, the painted lines faint.
Something doesn't slot right in his head, some problem of continuity. His brow furrows, "There were people in there, right?"
Ava covers her mouth to keep from speaking while chewing, "Yeah? How else would we have gotten food?"
"How did they get all the way out here without driving?"
Glancing at the parking lot, Ava's brow furrows in turn. There's silence for a few moments before she sighs, haggard, "Just eat your fucking burger, Simon."
Simon exhales harshly through his nose, familiar frustration rearing its ugly head, pressure in the front of his skull. She has a point, though, he hasn't even touched his burger.
A green, circular thing pokes out from the side. He picks it up and eats it, experimentally. The vinegar taste hits his tongue and his face screws up. Peeking under the bun, he sees a few more of them.
"Do you want my uh..." he picks one up, gesturing it towards her and realizing he doesn't remember what the hell it's even called, "um. These?"
Eyeing it, Ava takes it and pops it into her mouth. Seemingly satisfied with the taste, she nods, "What are they?"
Simon wracks his brain for the name as he picks off the rest of them and passes them to Ava. He remembers how they're made, it's by soaking cucumbers in some solution for a while, but any attempt to pull up the actual name comes up empty. "They're... doctored cucumbers."
She snorts at that.
Picking up the burger, two thoughts occur to him. One, he isn't sure how he's supposed to get his mouth around this. Two, it's wetter than he expected it to be. Rationally, he knew cooked meat gave off juice, but it's another thing to actually see meat that hasn't been dried.
He bites in.
Holy fuck. This is what those Fridays at the cafeteria as a child were trying to emulate. This taste. It's savory, mostly, melting into his mouth, and god it's fucking messy but he can't bring himself to care.
They eat in silence. Simon doesn't think of much of anything other than his five senses. At some point, Ava forces herself to close her box and push the food away.
Simon gives her a quizzical look.
"If I eat anymore, I'm gonna vomit everywhere."
That's reasonable. He nods, and she folds her arms onto the table to lay her head down.
Past her, on the other end of the parking lot, there's a break in the woods, a footpath with a wooden sign in front of it. He squints, attempting to read it but the green smudges still don't quite make letters. "Ava."
She does not pick her head up, "Hmn?"
"What does that say?"
Like it's some great undertaking, Ava groans and pushes herself to sit up and twist around to follow his gaze. "Uh. Pollinator garden." She pauses, jaw pushing up in thought.
Fuck waiting. Simon stands and gathers his things and goes to put them on the hood of the car.
"Where are you-?" Ava scrambles to follow, she clicks her tongue, "I can unlock the car, you know."
He pays her no mind. There's the sound of shuffling, a car door opening, then closing moments later, Ava jogging to catch up to him as he approaches the entrance to the garden.
In an ideal world, Simon would be able to name every plant he sees with ease as he steps into the garden. No such luck in this word, his botanical knowledge spanning mostly the complex lives of aspen trees, the habits and needs of potatoes, leeks, and radishes. Fenced off, bright and tall wildflowers reach for the sky, pink, purple and orange petals nested tightly together around a yellow stamen.
All around them, green. He feels like vomiting. He hasn't seen this much green since he was tiny, it's pure luck that he even has a memory to reference, and even then, it was Mars, where the greens were darker and hardier. These plants look like a soft kick could kill them. He wants to throw himself to the ground and kiss it, he wants to praise the God he wishes was real, not the eye that saw him bare. He wants to sink his teeth into the wildflowers, he wants to lay in the roots of the loblollies. He wishes Wyeth was here to see it. He wishes anyone he liked was here.
"Be right back." Ava grumbles behind him, Simon turns to watch her leave with hustle.
He doesn't understand her, he realizes. Everything they could ever want is right here and she's still finding something to find wrong with it. It's her own problem, he supposes, so long as she doesn't try to pry him from it too soon. He turns to look at a fuzzy, yellow stalk with tiny flowers. Milkweed, it's labeled. It's supposed to be good for the monarch butterflies. Gently, he takes a leaf between his forefinger and thumb, just to feel the wooly texture.
Truth be told, he doesn't know how long he stares. When he can bring himself to turn around again, he's startled to see Ava, knelt on the ground next to his water bottle.
Her brow's furrowed in concentration, maybe concern. One hand holds the clear bottle cap steady with a bit of water. The other's braced on the dirt patch. Peering over her shoulder, Simon spots the object of her worry.
A large paper wasp, fragile wings twitching, drags itself towards the water.
Oh.
Simon sits in the grass beside her.