Chapter Text
I finally understand why it was so hard for me to remember my name. Why I felt confused, and the memory came back harder than the ones relevant to my current predicament.
It wasn’t that I didn’t know my name. I think instead, my brain was confused about which name it was asking for.
I must have changed my name at some point.
I’m only realizing this now as I change out of the medical-grade clothing I had presumably been sleeping in for a few years. I had put it off for a few days, having bigger things to worry about. Unfortunately, I am beginning to smell myself. Not ideal.
As I peel off the plastic texture, I am momentarily surprised. I did not think that one of the first things I would be worried about when waking up in space would be my genitalia.
It was… in lack of better terminology… Not what I was expecting. At all.
Not that I’m upset or anything! I just presumed with the whole beard thing and the fact that all of my students called me Mr. Grace in my memories… I would be a dude.
No. Scratch that. I am a man. I feel that deep in my soul- deeper than any memory. Screw my lack of XY chromosomes. The genitalia didn’t have anything to do with it. I am definitely a dude, and I can tell I’ve been this way for a long time.
Suddenly, my head hurts. Random headaches have been happening a lot lately, always followed by some sort of memory. The Petrova line. Eva Stratt. My classroom. All of it has been coming back to me steadily, not always in order. This particular headache isn’t followed by a flashback, and instead fades steadily. My running theory? I am trying to remember something that my brain CLEARLY doesn't want me to remember.
Not my issue! If it’s repressed, it's probably for a reason. Some deep-rooted trauma. Whatever. I've got bigger things to worry about. For example- being in literal freaking space? Yeah. That seems like a priority. I can worry about the whole gender crisis thing later.
I just gotta find some clothes. I know realistically I am alone and light years away from any other soul, but that doesn't get rid of the need. Walking around naked as the day I was born in a very clearly sterile and important ship feels wrong.
Ok. Step one- find clothes. Step two- don’t panic about being alone and light years away from any other soul. Step three- panic a little, but still end up doing whatever the heck they sent me here to do.
Finding the clothes wasn’t especially difficult. There were conveniently placed bags inside the storage compartment below the sleeping quarters. One has a name written in traditional Mandarin Chinese, one in Russian, and one in English. It was written- “R. Grace.” I once again find myself wondering if the “R” always stood for “Ryland”.
Ok. Hypothesis- whatever in here is mine.
As I open the bag and rifle through the clothing (an assortment of stupid t-shirts) I realize I am missing a few key things.
One, any lab coats or procedural equipment. That could become a problem.
Two, and more importantly, any sort of chest-flattener-thing. I don’t want to say bra, because that's not it, c’mon brain- think! A binder! Yeah. That's what it's called.
Stratt. I support your feminism. But I am NOT letting them hang free in zero gravity.
Also, jerk, if I was in a medical coma for several years, why couldn’t you have- ya know- given a brother some surgery?
It’s clear I was still given some sort of hormone therapy (Testosterone?), evidenced by my current beard and weight distribution, which I appreciate, but still!
This is fine. I’ll figure something out.
I consider opening up one of my crewmates' bags and searching through it, but the idea immediately fills me with nausea. It was bad enough having to remove them from their beds to lay them to rest in space. I don’t want to rifle through a dead woman’s things, and I certainly don’t want to wear her undergarments.
A red box catches my eye across the room. A med kit and other medical supplies. Hmm. This I could work with.
I dig through the piles and boxes of bandages and salves and every possible prescription medicine that could be given over the counter. This was well packed. There were about seven full boxes of menstrual products, which I hoped I wouldn’t have to use, and even a box of contraceptives. Even if my crew were alive, I doubt those would have been used. But I guess it was better to have them and not use them than to end up with some space STD. If you were one thing, Stratt, it was prepared.
And then I find it. Kinesiology tape. Jackpot!
I climb my way up the ladder with tape in hand, and enter the lab. I thought I saw a laptop in here yesterday. It had been a long time since I tried this- and I was going to need some help.
I open the laptop and head to the digital library. There’s legit everything on here. I saw Minecraft earlier! They have to have some kind of article on-
Yep. Trans tape application and advice for beginners. I click on the tab and read through the snippet at the beginning. I swear, every website these days is like recipes on those mom blogs and has to include a whole life story before getting to the content. I didn’t need Debra telling me her deep and personal history with peppermint brownies, and I don’t need all these warnings!
Blah blah choosing the right brand blah blah safety or whatever and- there! Application.
It seems pretty simple. Not rocket science. Which is ironic, considering where I am.
I open the tape and rip off a piece with my teeth. Couldn’t be bothered to find scissors. I place it carefully on my left, far enough from my sternum, and stretch it across my side. Not bad. I place three more. Huh. I was good at this.
I start on my right. Tear off a piece. Okay, that one was wonky. I start again. Why isn’t it binding as well as the other side?
I will just have to use more. I rip off more and more tape until I have 8 strips on my right.
What the hell? And the left still looked better! Oh well. I can just start over.
I begin to peel it up and- nope. That hurt. It really hurt. What the hell? I could have sworn I’ve done this once or twice on earth in my youth.
Huh. Maybe that’s where those healed-over blisters on my side came from.
I scroll down in the article until I get to the removal section. It recommended some sort of oil? Well, that shouldn’t be hard to find. I’m in the best-stocked lab this side of the galaxy.
I found some unscented oil in the fourth cabinet I checked. Based on my discovery of contraceptives earlier, the chances of this being intended for non-scientific lubricants are more than I’d like to admit.
I soak the tape on my right liberally in the oil. I leave it for a few minutes, and begin to peel at the edges. It hurts less this time. I mean it still hurts, but it’s bearable.
I am able to peel up the tape pretty easily until I reach the edge of my areola.
I suddenly have another memory. One of me in a dimly lit bathroom, eyes watering, as I curse out myself for-
Oh no.
I scroll back up the page of the article until I reach the safety warnings. And yep- the first thing I see.
*Do NOT apply directly onto nipples without patches or cloth. You risk damaging the tissue permanently.”
Is this seriously the second time I’ve made this mistake? Thanks a lot, brain- you couldn’t remember BEFORE I put on the tape?! I’m a grown man for goodness sake.
I apply so much oil you would think America would try to colonize me.
I go very slowly. It hurts like a- screw language filter. I’m not in the classroom anymore. It hurts like a bitch.
I eventually get it off. I learn from my mistakes, and fold up and place a torn-off piece of cloth over my chest before taping. It looks better this time. I can worry about the left side later.
Once I’m done, I return to the storage room, and dig through the clothes I threw around. Did I seriously wear all these pun t-shirts? Whatever. I throw on a black Cats the Musical T-shirt. Can’t remember if I’ve seen it or not.
I find a pair of dinosaur print boxers and some loose basketball shorts. Being comfortable was a priority, and jeans were NOT in my wheelhouse right now. I pull on some socks, and forgo the shoes. With that, I find myself fully dressed.
And alone. In space. In another galaxy. With all of Earth counting on me.
Well- I’ll count my victories where I can get them.
Time to start step two. Not panic!