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Before they could force the twisted, lowly desire from their mind, Purple wished the impostor had killed them as well. It was incredibly wrong of them to think, and they knew this, even while doubled over a toilet and puking their (unfortunately intact) guts out. That didn’t stop their aching, throbbing brain, which felt as though it would swell out of their head like an alien parasite, from yearning for the end to this pain. Purple’s final higher-cognitive thought was reframing this desire into something more respectful toward their fallen crew: they wished the alien parasite had killed no one but themself. Because they had forgotten to pack their meds. They survived death by two alien murderers. And now they would die from forgetting their meds.
Or, perhaps to make their death sound less stupid, they would die from the after-effects of severe radiation poisoning from a nuclear fallout due to MIRA negligence. Purple had thought about it a lot before, and decided that they wouldn’t mind if this cause of death was engraved on their tombstone and published in discussion forums all throughout the galaxy. Perhaps they could succeed in death where they’d failed in life, in exposing MIRA for the extent of harm their short-sightedness caused to their workers. For this reason, on their darkest days, Purple had considered not taking their pills at all. But, when it really came down to it, they were not any better than Red. They weren’t willing to die for the cause. They wanted to live. Even if it meant swallowing those chalky pills that mysteriously appeared in their apartment in an unmarked brown baggie whenever their supply ran low. They were not completely unmarked, however.
Each pill was stamped with the MIRA logo, because someone had the hilarious idea that Purple, the defector, should have to swallow its name every day to survive. That was the biggest insult of all: that MIRA wanted them to survive. Or, rather, to die of anything other than radiation sickness. Purple never once deluded themself that they provided these meds for free because they cared about them, or at least felt bad for ruining their life and their health. No. For all they cared, Purple could go and fuck themself. Which they went and did, by stranding themself in outer space, weeks from the nearest planet, without their medication.
Purple dry-heaved over the toilet bowl, the contents of their stomach long gone, their body mistakenly assuming that the poison in their tissue, blood, and bone marrow could be vomited out. They didn’t flush the toilet. Rather, the world seemed to flush around them, spinning and spinning, like hypoxia without the euphoria. There was nothing feel-good about this. If they could, Purple would have ejected themself into space before spending another second feeling this way. They slid from the toilet lid onto the gross bathroom floor, far too miserable to care, and curled into themself and prayed for death.
Death surprised them by answering. Purple saw their crewmates, their nine dead crewmates, surrounding them. Hovering over them. Waiting for Purple to join them. A profound peace settled over them, and they managed to croak, “Hey guys. You taking care of Heracles?”
Of course they were. Purple hadn’t known any of them for long, but they instinctively knew that this was the best bunch of mates that a crewmate could ask for. Worthy companions in death. They couldn’t wait to join them. Red would be alright. Things always turned out alright for Red. Still, Purple supposed they should feel bad for them, leaving them to find their body like this, and to clean up the mess that they’d left in security. The projectile vomit had come out of nowhere.
“Sorry, Red,” Purple muttered, their visor slowly beginning to close. “I can be your… guardian angel…” Maybe that would make it up to them.
Red had been pounding at the door, yelling their name, this whole time. For hours. Or minutes. Was there really a difference, in the middle of outer space? Did time really exist? Such things were questions to be answered in death. Purple was ready for these answers.
Did they have regrets? Oh yeah. If Purple was lucid, they could scrawl out a hundred pages of them. But their very last regret was this: that the last words they’d ever hear in life were Red obnoxiously shouting CAPTAIN’S KICK.
_________
“I know you don’t want to, but do it for me. Please. Just take the damn pills.”
The first thing Purple grew aware of was Red’s desperate words being whispered in their ear. The second thing was the arms and legs clamped around their body like a panini press for frightened petmates at the vet. Somehow, the last thing they registered were the two fingers being shoved down their throat.
Purple reflexively gagged and spat them out, along with several meds that went rolling across the medbay floor. Medbay. They were in medbay. A more sensible place to die, Purple supposed, than the bathroom. And yet, somehow, they weren’t dead. Not even by the carelessness of their crewmate, who apparently thought it was a good idea to shove all three horse pills at once down an unconscious person’s throat.
“Are you trying to kill me??” Purple gasped.
“Actually doing exactly the opposite,” Red growled. Their legs clamped tighter, keeping Purple trapped as their hands switched tasks to shake new pills into their palm. These pills looked exactly the same as Purple’s. Oh, duh, Purple realized. They were the same pills. They were both right there when the reactor blew up. They had suffered the same poisoning as themself.
Before Purple worked up the presence of mind to protest, Red tried shoving these pills into their mouth. Out of sheer stubbornness to not be forced to take anything without their consent, on the cusp of death or not, Purple sealed their lips firmly against this attempt. They tried to shove Red’s hand away with both of theirs, but Red caught their wrists in one hand and wrestled them down.
“No, Purple!” Red snapped with a shocking amount of fierceness, their dorky demeanor nowhere to be seen—or felt. Their grip was surprisingly strong. Squirming against them felt like trying to break free from the harness of a spaceship seat, the kind designed for staggering G-force. Purple always liked to think they could beat up Red easily if it really came down to it. Maybe not. Either way, they quit struggling when they heard Red’s next words: “I won’t let you do this to yourself!”
Purple took a moment to fully catch up with the idiot’s implications, then muffled through the pills being shoved against their lips, “You think I chose to stop taking the pills?”
At that, Red paused, fingers slightly receding. “Uh… didn’t you?”
“No, you dumbass! My life really sucks and I’m traumatized as hell, but I don’t want to die!”
Red’s full-body hold immediately loosened, and Purple sighed with relief. They tried to sit up, actually growling when Red pulled them back against their chest, as though a petmate panini press was needed after all.
“Wait… just let me do this. Please.”
Purple didn’t know exactly what they meant until they brought those damn pills back up to their mouth. They sighed again. At this point, they’d do anything to be given the freedom to leave this whole situation behind.
“If it makes you feel better—”
“It will,” said Red.
They pressed the medication against their lips, and this time, Purple relented, allowing them onto their tongue. After years of taking these meds, dry swallowing wasn’t too difficult, but a paper cup of water was pressed to their lips before they could show off their talent.
You’re pushing it, Red, Purple thought to themself, but took a small sip regardless. Well, they tried to take a small sip, but Red determinedly poured the whole cup into their mouth at just the right pace for them to keep up with drinking but also unable to stop the deluge.
They were really, really pushing it.
“Okay, they’re all gone,” said Purple once the cup had run dry. “What next, you want to check under my tongue?”
Red only responded by wrapping their arms around them and letting their forehead fall on Purple’s shoulder, their captain’s hat threatening to fall on Purple’s lap.
“You scared me,” Red murmured, breathing warm against their neck.
Purple’s face heated up. God. They’d practically had their whole hand in their mouth, and this is what made them flustered?
“I scared myself, too,” said Purple. “I’m never forgetting to pack my meds again.”
“You’re sharing mine until we get you replacements,” said Red, no room for debate in their captain’s tone.
Purple forced themself to chuckle at their serious words. “Aye aye, Cap’n,” they lamely joked. They were still feeling lightheaded and woozy, but hopefully the meds would kick in before the next wave of serious symptoms.
For now, though, the best thing they could do was rest. Admittedly, Red’s warm, strong arms felt like a good place to do that.
“You, uh… planning on getting up… anytime soon?” Purple asked. Red didn’t answer, their breath slow and deep as they continued to rest their head on Purple’s shoulder. They took that as a “no.”
“Alright,” Purple sighed, getting comfy. They were on the floor, the medbay beds were right there, but, you know what? Purple was happy enough just being alive with their friend. That’s what they were: friends, or somewhere in that region.
As Purple drifted off to sleep with them, warm and safe and cozy and with nowhere they’d rather be, they decided this feeling—what some overly sentimental people might falsely refer to as “love”—was simply a side effect of their meds.
They kicked in pretty fast.